Am I supposed to be updating to the things I can’t control? Yes. Am I gonna write one shots in the meantime time cause I have aggressive writers block for that story? Also yes. So, give me requests!
Things I do write:
-Smut
-Romance
-Hurt/ Comfort
-Slow Burn
-pretty much everything
-AUs
Things I don’t write:
-CNC
-Racism/ Race Play
-Scat/ Watersports
-Incest/Step-Cest
-Abuse/ Domestic violence
-Yandere anything
-Ageplay anything
-Anything for or about minors
-Non-Black Readers. (This is for the real niggas 🙏🏽)
“He lying to me, and I'm lying to him, fuck it, guess we both ain't shit.”
Word count: 1.5k
Warnings: Suggestive themes & cheating.
Summary: You and Higuruma are both seeing other people, but your intense, possessive situationship blurs every boundary.
The first time you and Hiromi Higuruma mutually agreed it wasn't anything serious, it was over cheap wine and the sound of rain hitting your apartment window.
"We're both seeing other people," you had said, swirling the red liquid in your glass.
"Yes," he agreed.
"And this is...?"
"A complication," he answered, as if he were reading a legal definition he didn't particularly like but couldn't argue with.
Yet his hand had settled on your thigh like it belonged there.
That was how it started.
You know he's home because the lights are on, warm and deliberate against the dark hallway.
And you know he knows you're outside because Higuruma doesn't text "come up." He doesn't ask. He doesn't check.
He sends one message.
Door's unlocked.
It's almost 11:30 p.m., and the faint scent of another man's cologne still lingers on your skin beneath your own perfume.
Dinner had been pleasant. Easy conversation, steady eye contact, a hand at the small of your back that felt practiced rather than possessive. He had kissed your cheek, then closer to your mouth as if testing boundaries.
You didn't invite him over.
Instead, you came here.
The door clicks shut behind you, and the apartment greets you with low light and quiet tension.
Higuruma stands near the window, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, his collar slightly open.
He doesn't look at you right away, but you can see the way his shoulders stiffen at the sound of your heels on hardwood.
"You're late," he says calmly, his voice even.
You set your purse down, both slow and unbothered. "You're not my boyfriend."
"No," he replies, finally turning to face you.
The way he looks at you isn't casual. It's slow. Intentional. His gaze drags from your shoulders to your waist to your legs and back up, assessing. Measuring.
"You smell like outside," he says.
"I was."
"With him?"
You raise an eyebrow as you step further into the room, closing the distance by inches. "I thought we didn't ask questions like that."
"We don't," he agrees. "I'm making a simple observation."
"You didn't answer your phone when i called earlier," he said.
"You checked."
"You left your phone facing down."
"So you were spying on me."
"I much prefer the word noticing."
There's something restrained in his tone, something tightly leashed. It makes your pulse flutter despite yourself.
"He paid for dinner," you say, shrugging lightly. "It was nice."
Higuruma's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, the only outward sign that the statement landed.
"That was considerate of him."
"He kissed me."
Silence settles, much tthicker than before. His eyes sharpen, dark and unreadable.
"Where?" he asks calmly.
You tilt your head slightly, as if debating whether he deserves an answer. "Why?"
"Answer the question."
The command is quiet, but it lands heavy.
You step close enough that your bodies nearly touch, lifting your hand to brush your fingertips along your cheek. His gaze follows the motion without even blinking.
"Here," you murmur.
Then you drag your finger slowly to the corner of your mouth. "And here."
The shift is immediate. His hand closes around your wrist before you can lower it, firm but controlled. Not rough. Just enough to stop you.
"Careful," he murmurs.
"Or what?" you challenge softly.
"You know exactly what."
Your heartbeat betrays you, thudding against his thumb where he holds your pulse. He feels it. You can see the way his eyes darken at the confirmation.
"You don't get to be territorial," you remind him.
"I'm not," he says, though his grip doesn't loosen. "I'm deciding whether I want to erase it."
Heat flashes through you, both sharp and sudden.
He releases you, but steps closer at the same time, crowding your space until the back of your legs brush the couch.
The dominance is subtle — not overwhelming, but intentional enough to make you aware of every inch between you.
"You could've gone home with him," Higuruma says, his voice lower now.
"I could have."
"But you didn't."
"No."
His gaze searches your face, as if he's cross-examining you without speaking. "Why?"
You swallow slowly, then meet his eyes without flinching. "Because he doesn't look at me like he wants to win."
A flicker of something satisfied passes through his expression.
"Win?" he repeats.
"You treat this like a trial," you explain. "Like you're building a case. Gathering evidence."
"And what's the verdict?" he asks, stepping even closer until his hand settles at your waist.
The touch is warm and deliberate. His fingers spread slowly, dragging upward along your side as though he's mapping you from memory.
"You tell me," you breathe.
"You wore this dress for him," he says, voice steady.
"I didn't."
"You did." His fingers slip just beneath the edge of the fabric at your waist, grazing skin before retreating. The tease makes your breath hitch despite your best effort to stay composed.
"You don't get to interrogate me," you say.
"And you don't get to come here smelling like another man and expect me to be gentle," he replies.
You turn in his hold, pressing your palms flat against his chest. Beneath the fabric of his vest, his heartbeat is steady but heavier than usual.
"You're not gentle," you accuse.
"I am," he murmurs, one hand sliding to the small of your back. "You just don't notice because you like when I'm not."
The honesty of it makes your stomach tighten.
His fingers trail down your arm slowly, then back up, drawing attention to every nerve he passes.
"You enjoy this," he continues softly. "Walking in here after a date. Watching me decide how much I'm willing to tolerate."
"Maybe I just like having options," you counter.
His hand slips beneath the strap of your dress again, tugging it slightly down your shoulder, exposing warm skin to the cool air.
His mouth hovers near your neck, close enough that you feel the promise of contact but not quite receiving it.
"You want me to tell you to stop seeing him," you say, your voice barely steady.
"Yes," he admits in defeat.
The admission hits harder than any touch.
"But I won't," he adds, brushing his lips lightly against the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. It's not a kiss, just pressure. "Because if I asked, you would."
Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt.
"And I don't want obedience," he says quietly. "I want you choosing me without being told."
The words sink deep, stirring something more dangerous than jealousy.
"And what about her?" you ask, forcing yourself to keep the game alive.
"She doesn't make me lose focus," he answers without hesitation.
You push at his chest, not enough to create distance but enough to show defiance.
“I’m just honest.”
You pull him down into a kiss before he can say more. This one isn't careful or measured. It's hungry, teeth grazing, breaths tangling.
His control slips another fraction as his hand slides down your back and grips your thigh, lifting you just enough that your body reacts instinctively.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he murmurs against your mouth.
"You started it."
"No," he says, lifting you fully this time and guiding you back against the couch, hovering over you without crushing you beneath him. "You did. The night you told me you weren't staying."
You remember the way you left him standing there, frustrated and silent. You'd known it would linger.
He studies you now from above, gaze slow and consuming. Your lipstick had softened and your eyes were dark with want you're no longer hiding.
"Tell me," he says quietly, one hand sliding up your thigh again, stopping just short of where you ache for it. "Tell me you came here because you wanted me. Not because you wanted to see if I would react."
Your breath stutters.
You could lie. You could keep playing.
But the truth feels heavier in your chest than pride.
"I came here because he kissed me," you admit softly, fingers curling into his shirt again. "And all I could think about was whether you would do it better."
The air between you tightens.
His hand stills. His eyes darken, not with jealousy this time — but with something deeper. Something claiming.
"Is that so?" he asks.
You nod so slowly it’s barely noticeable.
He leans down slowly, brushing his mouth along your jaw, then your neck, slower than before. This time it was deliberate, controlled and proving a point rather than chasing heat.
"Then pay attention," he murmurs against your skin.
And the way he kisses you after that isn't about winning.
It isn't about jealousy.
It's about making sure that the next time someone else touches you, all you can think about is him.
He will not ask you to trust him. He will present the evidence and let you decide.
Pairing— Hiromi Higuruma x F. Reader
Rating— Mature
Word Count— ~3.4k
Content— established relationship, intellectual intimacy, sensory regulation & neurodivergent processing (written with care), references to legal disillusionment and off-screen vigilante justice, executioner/judgment themes, deep emotional devotion, no smut
Author’s Note— a headcanon set for the version of Higuruma who has survived the collapse of his ideals and chosen to construct a meticulous, unyielding defense around the one person whose logic matches his own.
Hiromi Higuruma does not flirt. He engages. The first real conversation between you was an argument—not hostile, not loud, just two stubborn people disagreeing about something specific enough to matter, neither willing to concede without cause. You do not remember who started it. What you do remember is the exact moment he paused mid-sentence, his sharp eyes pinning you across the low table as if he were recalculating an entire equation in his head. “That’s a better point than I expected,” he said, his voice measured, completely serious, and stripped of any condescension. By all accounts, you should have been offended by his initial low estimation of your argument. Instead, looking at his austere, unblinking expression, you felt a strange, sharp flutter of flattery. That was your first warning sign.
Higuruma is not a charming man. Charm is a performance, a curated layer meant to please, and he has entirely run out of the desire to perform. Instead, he is compelling, which is far more dangerous because it cannot be turned off. Whatever he does feels entirely structural. It lives in the unwavering way he listens, the way he holds eye contact a half-second longer than social comfort normally allows, and the way he speaks with a quiet precision that makes you feel like the only person in the room whose opinion requires that level of analytical attention. He is not trying to capture your interest. That is the problem.
His memory borders on the prosecutorial, operating with the terrifying efficiency of a man building a permanent record. He doesn’t use it for romantic shorthand; he stores information like a legal brief to be cited in future discussions. If you mention offhandedly that a certain restaurant made you uncomfortable three months ago, he files it away. If you comment that the heavy, damp air of a rainy afternoon makes your shoulder ache, he notes it. The moment you told him, early on, that you despised being interrupted when trying to untangle a thought, the habit vanished from his behavior entirely. He has not cut you off mid-sentence a single time since. He simply builds a case for your comfort, though he would never use a phrase that sentimental. He calls it procedural accuracy.
He calls you strictly by your name. When he is serious, he uses your full name, the syllables pronounced with a heavy, deliberate respect. When he is being dry, he shortens it. He completely avoids pet names. When you asked him about it once, he looked up from his legal papers, his fountain pen hovering, and stated that names carry far more weight when they are not buried under decorative titles. You had to sit with that answer for an entire afternoon.
His apartment is sparse in a way that rejects any modern minimalist aesthetic; it is the physical aftermath of a collapse. It belongs to a man who once organized his entire existence around a career and a system he believed in, and when that belief shattered, the surrounding objects simply did not get replaced. The bookshelves remain entirely full, because his texts survived the disillusionment. The kitchen is functional, and the bed is made every morning with military precision—because discipline is the last thing to go when everything else has fallen away.
The first time you left an item there—a heavy, deep mahogany-colored satin band meant to hold back the dense mass of your black curls—it stayed exactly where you dropped it on the bathroom shelf for a full week. He didn’t throw it away, and he didn’t hide it. On the eighth day, you found it placed in a small, polished ceramic dish by the basin. When you noticed it, a small smile tugging at your lips, you nudged his shoulder where he stood adjusting his tie. “You could have just asked me to take it home, Hiromi.” Higuruma didn’t blink, his face a mask of absolute gravity. “It kept falling.” It had not. It was a dense satin weight resting on a completely flat marble surface. But it was his first, quiet admission that your lived-in textures were officially permitted to occupy his stark, clinical world.
Cross-Examination as a Love Language
Arguing with Higuruma feels less like interpersonal conflict than a rigorous academic examination. It is not because he is combative or petty; it is because intellectual exchange is his native tongue, and he does not know how to turn it off when he crosses his own threshold. If you say something imprecise during a disagreement, he will immediately ask you to define your terms. If you get overwhelmed and begin speaking in broad, emotional abstractions, he will shake his head slightly. “I need you to be specific,” he will say, his tone entirely even, “so I can understand exactly what I am responding to.”
It is thoroughly maddening. It forces you to slow down, to track your own logic, and to find the exact words for the chaos inside your head. Yet, it is also the most deeply respectful thing anyone has ever done for you during a fight. Underneath the clinical cross-examination is a man who entirely refuses to assume he already knows what you feel. He asks. Every single time.
During one particular evening when the world had been too loud and your frustration boiled over into a sharp comment directed at him, he stopped pacing his polished floor and looked down at you. “You’re not angry at me,” he stated calmly, his posture unyielding. You crossed your arms, the long, rounded edges of your dark plum acrylics digging into the sleeve of your oversized knit sweater. “I am, actually.” “No,” Higuruma countered, his eyes locking onto yours with terrifying clarity, refusing to let you look away. “You’re angry at the parameters of the situation, and I am merely the nearest available entity. There is a distinct difference between the two. I would prefer to respond to the right one.” You hate that he is right. You hate it even more because being correctly identified and pulled out of an emotional spiral by his logic somehow makes it infinitely easier for your lungs to expand.
Patience, with him, is never a performance. He is entirely willing to sit in absolute silence while you struggle to articulate your thoughts, even when it takes you three separate attempts and a long, heavy pause to reach the core of your meaning. He does not fill the gap with his own words. He does not offer you an easier, lazier phrase to speed up the conversation. He lets you find it. And when you finally do, the subtle shift in his expression—the slight relaxation of his brow—tells you that he was tracking every single step of your mental journey, considering none of the time wasted.
Mapping the Mechanism
Physical affection is not intuitive for Higuruma. He spent a lifetime in a profession where rigid composure was his primary currency, and touch was an action you never initiated without explicit consent and legal cause. He learns the landscape of your body slowly, with an almost agonizing degree of consideration. His hand settling at the small of your back occurred weeks after the first time he actually wanted to place it there—and when his fingers finally made contact through the fabric of your dress, the pressure was deliberate, firm, and unmistakable. Your curls brushed his knuckles where they fell heavy at your collarbones, and his hand did not move. You learned quickly that every touch from him is a conscious decision that had to pass through more internal checkpoints than he will ever admit to you.
The first time he went to kiss you, he stopped precisely two inches from your mouth. His breath was warm against your skin, his dark eyes intensely focused under the dim light. “I want to be entirely clear about what this is,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. Your deep brown eyes didn’t waver. “What is it, Hiromi?” “Not casual,” he said. You closed the remaining distance yourself, pulling his face down to yours. He let you take the lead for a fraction of a second before his large hand came up to cup the side of your neck, his thumb anchoring firmly against your jawline. He kissed you with a deep, consuming focus, like a man who had spent weeks preparing a flawless case for the action and had just received the winning verdict.
Because of this intense observation, he notices your shutdowns long before you have fully registered the collapse yourself. He tracks the precise physical markers: the way your voice flattens into a monotone, the way your polished mahogany nails begin turning the warm, hammered bands of your gold rings too fast, and the way you instinctively pull your sleeves over your palms to hide your hands. He does not diagnose you or make a scene. He simply leans in, his shadow cutting off the crowd, and asks a single question: “Do you want to leave?” His tone carries no hidden judgment, no irritation, and no subsequent follow-up demands.
When you give a tight nod, he stands up immediately, settles the bill with the establishment, and walks you out of the crowded space with his hand firmly against your back, his mouth shut. In the car, he switches the radio off before the engine even turns over, eliminating the auditory static without being asked. By the time you walk through his front door, the harsh overhead lights have already been dimmed to a soft, golden hue. He does not ask if you are okay. He simply adjusts the physical environment to your boundaries and trusts your body to do the remaining work.
Later, when the baseline of your nervous system resets and you have the language for it, you sit on his couch and explain the sensory mechanics of your processing. You tell him how textures suddenly flip on you, how clothing can turn hostile against your skin, and how ambient sound can become an aggressive architecture you cannot escape. Higuruma listens with the absolute focus of a man building a permanent framework he intends to utilize for the rest of his life. When you finish speaking, his thumb traces a slow, deliberate line along the seam of the couch cushion. “Thank you for explaining the mechanism,” he says softly. “That helps me respond correctly.”
He doesn’t offer empty platitudes. He uses words like mechanism and correctly. He treats your nervous system like an entity with its own internal, beautiful logic worth understanding, rather than a broken problem that needs to be soothed into silence. The sheer respect of it makes your throat tight, though you never tell him how close you came to crying.
The Structural Integrity of Truth
You catch him in the kitchen once, standing before the open cabinet, choosing between two boxes of tea with the intense focus of an attorney reviewing critical evidence. He hears your footsteps but does not turn. His hand moves from the chamomile to the ginger, back to the chamomile, then decisively to the ginger. The city was too loud today; he knows because of the way you held your keys when you walked in—gripped tightly in your palm, not dangling. He does not acknowledge that you witnessed the deliberation. The kettle is on before you even reach the couch. That is Higuruma’s love: logistical, precise, and operating on a dataset he has built from months of watching you live. Your mornings require black tea. Your afternoons call for green. Evenings depend entirely on what the day did to your nervous system, and he reads the verdict directly from your hands.
In the quiet safety of his room, Higuruma reads in bed the way a man reads when it has been his only coping mechanism since childhood—seriously, vertically, with a fountain pen held firmly in his opposite hand for marginalia. His notes in the margins of his texts are devastatingly sharp: clean, precise handwriting, surgical observations, and occasional flashes of dry commentary that make you laugh aloud when you discover them later. He treats books with an old-world reverence. He never dog-ears pages, utilizing actual leather bookmarks instead. The first time he caught you folding the corner of a page to save your place in a dark fantasy novel, he leveled a look of such profound, severe disappointment at you that you felt as if you were being formally sentenced by a magistrate. “That is a book,” he said, his voice entirely deadpan. “It possesses structural integrity.” You rolled your eyes, pulling your legs up against your soft chest. “It’s a cheap paperback, Hiromi.” “Paperbacks have rights,” he stated, without a single muscle in his face twitching.
His dry humor always sneaks up on you like that. It is dry enough to desiccate, delivered with a completely straight face, often embedded so deeply within an otherwise serious sentence that your brain takes five full seconds to catch the irony. But when you finally do burst into a sudden laugh, his mouth doesn’t move. His eyes just warm, the dark irises softening in the lamplight. That specific distinction wrecks your defenses every single time.
He has never once told you that you are overthinking a situation. In a world full of people who treat your depth of processing as an annoying inconvenience, Higuruma treats it as a valid, necessary methodology. “Walk me through the logic,” he will say, leaning back and giving you the floor. And he means it. He listens to every branch of your thoughts. At the end of your explanation, he will either say, “That tracks,” or, “I see it differently—here is why.” Both options make you feel like a person whose mind possesses actual weight.
Jealousy in Higuruma does not look like loud posturing or territorial displays. It looks like a physical sharpening of his presence. If someone speaks to you with an unearned familiarity or assumes access to your space, his posture remains entirely unchanged, but his focus narrows to a point so incredibly fine you can feel the drop in temperature from across the room. He does not intervene or cause a scene because his trust in your choices is absolute. What he distrusts is the sheer audacity of someone who has not earned the right to stand within your circle, and his gaze communicates that reality with the icy efficiency of a closing argument.
The Weight He Carries
Higuruma’s exhaustion is not the kind that sleep repairs. He is not tired of demands or workload or the ordinary friction of living. He is tired of inconsistency. He built an entire career—an entire self—on the premise that fairness could be enforced through procedure, that the correct application of law would produce the correct result, that the structure would hold if the people inside it simply did their jobs. And then the structure said no. Not loudly, not dramatically, but with the quiet, procedural cruelty of a system that had never intended to be fair and had simply been better at concealing it than he was at believing otherwise.
The disillusionment did not make him bitter. That is the part most people get wrong about him. Bitterness would have been easier—it would have given him permission to stop caring. Instead, it made him exacting. If the system will not be fair, then he will be. In every conversation, every choice, every small domestic act of precision. The bed made with military corners. The tea selected by behavioral evidence. The question he never skips: “Do you want to leave?” The discipline is not a personality trait. It is load-bearing architecture. It is the thing that remains standing when the foundation has been removed, held upright by nothing except his refusal to let it fall.
You see this. You see it in the way he reads case law at two in the morning, not because he has an active case but because the habit of believing in structure outlived the belief itself. You see it in the way he folds his clothes with the precision of someone who learned, young and hard, that the things you can control are the only things that don’t betray you. You see it in the way his jaw tightens when the news reports another mistrial, another procedural failure, another quiet confirmation that the machine he trusted was never built for what he needed it to do.
On those nights, he does not talk. He sits at his kitchen island with a glass of water he does not drink, his hands flat on the counter and his eyes fixed on a point somewhere past the wall. You do not fill the silence. You sit on the stool beside him and place your hand—warm, brown, and wrapped in hammered gold—over his, and you feel the rigid tension in his knuckles like a held verdict. He does not look at you immediately. But his hand slowly turns over beneath yours, palm up, and his long fingers close around your hand with the careful, deliberate pressure of a man accepting evidence he did not want to be presented with. You are the first thing he has allowed back into the ruins. He knows what that costs. He knows what it means to rebuild inside a structure that has already proven it can collapse. He does it anyway, brick by brick, with the same terrifying discipline he applies to everything—because Higuruma does not know how to love without building something, and the thing he is building around you is the only architecture he has left that he believes in.
The Darkness in the Room
There is something Higuruma does not talk about, and it is not his past. His past he will give you—measured, precise, stripped to the bones. The law. The belief. The case that cracked him. The verdict that broke the rest. He rehearsed that narrative until it became evidence rather than wound, and he presented it to you on his floor with his back to your knees and your hand in his. That was honesty. This is different. What he does not talk about is what he became after.
You know because you are who you are—someone who tracks shifts in air pressure, who notices when a man’s hands are steadier than they should be after the kind of night that should leave them shaking. The room is thick with silence when the front door lock clicks. He doesn’t turn on the light. He simply crosses the sparse bedroom, the quiet weight of his body shifting the mattress as he sits heavily on the edge of the bed. You are already awake, shifting beneath the covers, tracking the perfect, undisturbed rhythm of his breathing. When you reach through the dark, your fingers brushing the cuff of his sleeve, your hand finds his. They are completely steady.
That is the tell. No tremor, no lingering adrenaline. Steady hands after midnight mean something happened that required judgment rather than a physical struggle, and judgment is the thing Higuruma does now with a precision that has nothing to do with courtrooms. He has a power. You do not know its full shape—he has not presented that case to you, and you have not asked for discovery—but you know its nature. It is judgment made literal. The man who wanted fairness and watched the system refuse to provide it has been given the authority to provide it himself—not through argument, not through appeal, but through something final, binding, and supernatural.
The irony is not lost on you. The man who loved the law more than anything now operates entirely outside it, enforcing what the law promised and never delivered. He does not need a courtroom. He does not need a jury. He has become the system he once trusted, and the system, when it has teeth, looks exactly like violence. You see this in the absolute stillness that follows his returns. Not guilt—Higuruma does not carry guilt about correct verdicts, and that is the part that sits heaviest in your chest. He believes the judgments are right. He believes this with the same structural certainty he once gave the law.
And you, lying beside him in the dark, tracking the even rhythm of his breathing and the steady hands that hold yours with such careful, deliberate pressure—you have to decide, in the silence of your own perception, whether you believe that a man who is always right about justice is safer or more dangerous than one who doubts. You have not decided. You are not sure you need to. What you know is this: the same man who dims the lights before you ask, who tracks your tea by the way you hold your keys, who told you “not casual” two inches from your mouth and meant it with his entire architecture—that man also carries a power that ends arguments the way his courtroom never could. Both are true. Both live in the same hands. You hold those hands in the dark and feel the paradox settle into your chest beside the warmth, and you do not ask him to explain what he was doing at midnight, and he does not offer, and the silence is its own closing argument.
The Final Verdict
One evening, sitting on his sparse floor with your back against his knees, he finally told you about the law. He spoke about what it was originally supposed to be, what he believed fairness could achieve, the first case that cracked his faith, and the final, corrupt verdict that broke it entirely. He did not cry. He did not alter the calm cadence of his voice. He spoke with the terrifying precision that only exists when a person has rehearsed a tragedy enough times to strip it down to the bare bones—and the bones are the parts that hurt the most. You reached back, your warm brown fingers sliding into his large palm, holding his hand through the silence that followed. He let you. His grip tightened just once when he hit the end of the narrative.
You didn’t offer him a hollow “I’m sorry.” You looked at his profile and said, “The system failed you, Hiromi.” His jaw tightened, a small muscle jumping in his cheek. He looked down at your intertwined hands, the gold of your rings contrasting against his skin. “Yes,” he said softly. It felt like the first time anyone had ever placed the massive weight of his grief exactly where it belonged, without trying to minimize or soothe it away.
When you sleep beside him, he always faces you. One arm rests under his pillow, while his other hand remains open on the mattress between your bodies—not like an offering, but like a document waiting for a signature he would never rush. When you reach out and slide your fingers into his, his grip closes around yours immediately. He is not fully awake, nor is he fully asleep; he exists in that liminal space where his rigid composure entirely drops and his reflexes tell the absolute truth.
During a rare moment of insecurity, when the weight of your own mind felt too heavy, you looked at him across his kitchen island and muttered, “You don’t have to fix how I feel all the time.” Higuruma didn’t blink. “I am not trying to fix it. I am trying to understand it so I stop responding to the wrong thing.” That sentence lives in your chest like a permanent bruise—tender, deep, and constantly felt.
He will take your side in public without a single shred of hesitation, presenting a unified front to the world. But in private, behind the closed door of his apartment, he will tell you exactly when he thinks you are wrong. He does it gently, specifically, laying out enough evidence that you cannot easily dismiss it, but wrapping it in enough profound care that you don’t even want to. Loyalty, to him, is not blind agreement. Loyalty is honesty with your dignity kept entirely intact. He knows the difference, and that exact distinction is why you trust him implicitly.
He loves you the way he used to love justice—completely, structurally, with his entire internal architecture. The terrifying difference for him is that you love him back, and reciprocity is a concept the law never once offered him. Some days, he doesn’t quite know what to do with that reality. On those days, he simply makes your ginger tea, reads his books beside you in the dim light, and lets his shoulder press firmly against yours. The physical contact says everything his legal training never taught his tongue how to speak.
He will never be the one to tell you he loves you first. But he will build such a meticulous, airtight, and irrefutable case for it through every morning routine, every careful touch, and every single argument he lets you win because your reasoning was simply better, that by the time you finally say the words aloud, you are not making a confession. You are simply delivering a verdict he has already thoroughly proven.
thank you for reading.
comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated.
Haven’t posted in a hot minute. As some of you know I’m in university and I graduate next spring. I haven’t had any time to write and I do apologize however; I have gotten all of your requests and I am going to be starting them as soon as summer break begins for me. I’m so so so sorry for the wait.
Someone just liked this and me when I fucking lieeeeee. Graduated college had hella free time and still ain’t do shit. I have been desperately searching for the whimsy I had whilst writing but that has been difficult. I don’t feel much of a connection towards many of the fandoms I used to write for and I barely read them anymore because apparently the characters I like are either two Niche or they’re “not popular” anymore which sucks. I started writing a Sinners fic last year that hasn’t been touched since then. Hell, there’s a third chapter of “To the things I can’t control” IN MY DRAFTS. I fear I’m a deadbeat author LMFAO
Haven’t posted in a hot minute. As some of you know I’m in university and I graduate next spring. I haven’t had any time to write and I do apologize however; I have gotten all of your requests and I am going to be starting them as soon as summer break begins for me. I’m so so so sorry for the wait.
Warnings: ¡fem! receiving oral, praise, making out, implied age difference with reader in 20's and Higuruma 36, face sitting, slapping at one part
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¡Law Professor Higuruma! who is known for having a 60% pass rate in your little college. It isn't that the man is bad at teaching, it's just people can't focus when they have a hunk like him in front of them!
He shows up in a black, pressed suit every day with a signature coffee in hand— enough to make the coeds drool. Then again, practically any man who isn't partying all week in sigma alpha epsilon or sigma chi is a total upgrade.
Then there was his constant relaxed expression like the actor Adrien Brody in the early 2010's. His voice was smooth and had a deeper pitch to it than the 20 year old men that look around lecture halls waiting to hit on some sorority girl. He carried himself with an air of silent confidence a 36 year old man should have, and a spritz of Versace Eros.
His voice could practically be recorded and uploaded into some asmr channel and have a couple thousands subscribers; even if he's just talking about actus reus or mens rea. He'd lean his hip against the desk while flipping through whatever case file he was discussing for the week and all you could focus on was how he rolled his cuffed sleeves up: exposing his delicious forearms.
Needless to say, you were pretty distracted all of the first semester which quickly nipped you in the butt when you took the midterm and got a whopping 65%. You were quick to message Professor Higuruma to try and sweet talk him into any possible extra credit.
¡Law Professor Higuruma! who didn't necessarily say no to redemption, but he didn't like it. After all, it was college and it's important the adults he taught to grasp the content since they're training to be important members of society.
However, when he read over your professional, but clearly panicked, email and saw that you had completed his optional assignments— he cut you some slack. He arranged a meeting to go over the exam and review all the materials for partial credit on the assessment. Every day he saw you attend class, sit in the front row, and hang onto every word he'd say. He thought it was pretty sweet he had a student so attentive to their learning. If only he knew half of that "learning" was just trying to memorize the image of a vein running up his forearm.
¡Law Professor Higuruma! who scheduled the one on one meeting for after his last class on Friday, for he really didn't want to do extra work on the weekends. Though you quickly obliged and threw out all Friday night plans with your friends; you did need that partial credit and you wanted an excuse to be with him.
Soon enough Friday rolls around and you showed up to his office at 5:30 pm sharp, like he instructed, all bright eyed and bushy tailed as you knocked on the door before pushing it open. His office was about how you'd expect with a basic brown couch that looked straight out of a Tuscany mom's house, books pilled on the bookshelves that lined the far end of the room, and a coffee table.
"Ah, quite punctual. Good trait to have— bit of a dying cultural thing," he comments with a slight smile that let you know he was trying to be welcoming by joking; well, slightly joking. "I hope you don't mind working at the coffee table. I was trying to reserve a study room in the library, but it seems like a few groups of students already took them"
"That'd be the literature majors! I believe Professor Nanami is having his midterm on Monday," you informed him with a smile while moving to the table and plopping yourself down on the couch. You'd worn a skirt, though slightly regretted it when you felt the cold leather kiss the back of your thighs.
"Hm," he hummed while standing from his desk and gathering papers you soon recognized as your actual midterm, "that would make sense. What was it Kento was teaching? The Chrysanthemum and the Sword?"
"Yep," you chirped, then immediately realized this is your professor you're speaking with so you swiftly switched your tone: "Um-.. Yes, sir"
Higuruma gave you a small glance, but inevitably just sat down in the couch beside you, but gave a respectable distance as he opened the exam packet for review.
"Well then, let's begin at the start with torts"
¡Law Professor Higuruma! who has now been beside you reviewing each individual question for nearly 2 hours. Apparently, you got a lot more wrong than you realized. You could've sworn you never learned about the rule against perpetuities.
Though, throughout your session you kept trying to gradually shift closer to the man. Whenever he'd point to a word to emphasis in the question, you'd lean over and tilt your legs towards him; as if being unable to properly see the font. He never commented on it; though one time your knees bumped lightly against his and he just cleared his throat and shifted his legs to not man spread, so you'd have more room.
"It's a notoriously abstract topic that requires analyzing if a property interest will certainly vest, fail, or be destroyed within a life in being—.. being plus 21 years."
He clears his throat, for probably the tenth time this hour, when he glanced over to you only to see you already staring at him through those pretty lashes.
"Oh so like, if a person grants land to their children, then to their grandchildren, it might be a violation if there is any possibility the grandchildren's interest could vest more than 21 years after the last child dies?" you ask back while referencing the question at hand.
"Yes, exactly. You're catching on quick— smart girl," he comments while flipping the page. It was a simple compliment, though the praise did shoot straight to your stomach as a familiar ache set in.
¡Law Professor Higuruma! who has now been here with you for four hours. You had suggested the both of you going home simply because you didn't want to burden his entire Friday night, but he insisted he'd just rather finish the work now.
So, after a customary cup of coffee from his personal espresso machine, the two of you were nearing the last several questions of the exam. You were sure his office light would be the only one illuminating the otherwise dark building. Throughout the entire session, you had gradually inched closed until your thigh is finally brushing against his. He didn't comment on it, but you started to notice his subtle glanced towards your thighs every time he'd flip the next page.
"Alright, for this question I can understand your train of thought; however, it isn't the best answer"
"Mhm, and what is?" damn you're not even attempting to look at the paper at this point. He loosened his tie a while ago and just let his usually precise, white button up shirt open to expose more of his neck.
"Well..," he paused, gazing towards you for a moment since he's felt your stare since three minutes ago. He should've known better than allowing you to stay longer. Professors really weren't even supposed to meet with students past 6 pm— much less sit alone with a student who's been eye fucking him for the past 2 hours. "Hm, well, the distinguished evidence between civil and criminal law is advanced more appropriately in C because—"
"Yeah? I didn't really see that during the test I guess"
You hadn't even realized you began to subtly nibble on the edge of your bottom lip. Though, Higuruma does.
"Or maybe it's just getting hard to concentrate. I hope you don't mind a little brain break? Then we can knock out the rest of the questions," you proposed while not tearing your eyes off his dark ones.
"Hm, yes. That could do us good, and I don't mind it at all"
His gaze switched between your lips to your eyes, but you stayed fixated on his lips and rosy cheeks. Staring at him, you also realized just how close you were to the man. Since when were you nearly only 6 inches away face to face?
The moment continued for a couple more seconds, then the tension finally built up too much like a rushing river and the dam broke. You leaned in before he did, but he was quick to bring his steady hands up to tangle in your hair.
His mouth was moving against yours like a trained veteran as he sets the rhythm and lightly tilts your head back to prep for a new angle. His tongue swipes over your bottom lip and you quickly catch the memo and let the wet muscle slot into your mouth.
You can't even tell how long the two of you had been kissing, but you did know one of his hands managed to drift to under your shirt and smoothed over your waist. Finally though, he's quickly pulling back with barley widened eyes as he stared at you. His breathing was heavier, much like yours.
"Oh god— sorry, sorry," he's apologizing while beginning to take his hand off your side, or at least not have it up your shirt. His mind is instantly racking through all the meetings and paperwork he'd have to fool with if anyone figured out he kissed a student and reported it. Sure, the both of you were adults but that doesn't negate the fact that you're on campus grounds.
"Huh? No, no it's fine," your hand shot down to his wrist in attempt to prevent him from breaking contact, "I wanted that"
Eyes trailing back down to your lips, body instinctively giving in to lean forward once more, but he catches himself when you readjust your grip on his wrist. Gently, he's still removing his hand from you.
"It's just we really shouldn't be doing this— it entirely breaks the universities policy"
You're practically following his body when he tries to subtly lean away. You bite your lip slightly to conceal your pout, but this disappointment was prevalent.
"It's okay," you insist but he's already just leaning back on the couch and one hand is pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes close in thought. He doesn't like annoyed, but he's definitely showing an emotion you'd never witnessed before. "I've wanted to do that for a while, do you not want to?"
"It's-.. it's not a matter of want, it's what's right. As a professor, I'm not supposed to be seen like—"
"Oh like you don't know half the class wants to fuck you"
The words come out so quick you hardly had time to process them before they have already slipped out. It was the truth, but perhaps you shouldn't have worded it like that. You see his hand drag down his face, eyes opening as it just covers his mouth for a second. Finally, it's slipping off his lips and lower jaw and falling back into his lap.
"No, I don't know what you're talking about. This is all strictly educator and student. I-.. I think we should continue with the last few questions—"
"Professor Higuruma," you interrupted. He had gone back to trying to pick up the paper from the coffee table, but your tone makes him retreat: leaving it abandoned. "If.. you want this, then I'd really like to give it to you..."
His gaze is locked on you as his mind move a mile a minute while mulling over each possible outcome. All of which get interrupted when the idea of what you sound like cumming takes over. Rapidly, and without much more consideration, he's making his choice.
¡Law Professor Higuruma! who was clearly no longer hesitant if you consider the position he's got you in.
He's laying back on the couch with his ankles dangling off due to his height. At his face, he's managed to convince you to hover your pretty pussy over it as he works at slurping up the sweet nectar. Well, hovering was your idea that he wasn't particularly fond of.
After your horny, needy confirmation, he was swift about getting to business and continuing the previously paused makeout. In the middle of trailing wet kisses down your neck, an idea popped into his head. However, you would've never thought that "idea" would spiral into you face sitting for the first time.
Sure you'd seen it in porn, but no one actually did that— right? I mean the couple of men you've been with certainly weren't itching to eat you out like your professor was. All that stuff about men actually caring about a woman's orgasm had to just be porn and the fanfics you read late at night. Today seemed to be the day you were proven wrong though.
"Sweetheart, just sit down," he insisted while his hands were settled on your hips. He didn't want to necessarily shove you down on him, but he was so damn close to it. He didn't understand the complication: all you had to do was suffocate him with your sloppy pussy.
"B-but I might hurt you—"
"You're not going to hurt me"
"You don't know how much I weigh! Let's just do it like—!" by the unfortunate, unholy grace of god, your knee slightly slipped off the slippery leather couch and forced you down. Instantly you were worried from how hard you might've hit his nose— you'd probably die from embarrassment if he bled.
However, after slipping you immediately felt warm, hard licks through your lips as a groan vibrates against your skin. You go to lift yourself slightly and check on the man, but his fingers dig into the plush of your waist as he made a disapproving groan before it shifted into a moan once he shoved his tongue into your hole.
"F-fuck, Professor Higuruma—" you whined out on instinct, but he immediately delivered, not a harsh but firm, slap to your ass that made you jolt. He mumbled something incoherent since your vulvas were literally muffling his speech, but you could make out him just repeating his name for you to call him.
He's moving your hips entirely on his own as he drags your body up and down his face while he begins to suck on your nub and then delivered a playful nibble that had you gasping.
"Just grind baby. Yeah, yeah like that," he groans: his voice husky and clouded with pleasure as his eyes remain shut. You begin to roll your hips downwards, just slightly, so your clit could catch on the bridge of his nose.
Eventually, his hands leave your hips and instead trail themselves to wrap more around the back of your thigh and loop over to the front. From that position, he glides his hands down your navel before they reach your pussy and gently pull back the outer folds. This time, he did slit his eyes open while watching your drip all over his face and expensive leather couch.
"God, you're gorgeous," he mumbled as if to himself, "so so beautiful baby. Tell me, does your pussy get this wet for other dumb guys? Are you drenched by some pathetic frat boy trying to grind on you like a dog?"
"No-..! No! Higuruma—"
"No even that bleached one?" he then inquires and if you weren't so distracted with the way his tongue was shoved into your pussy, maybe you would've realized his reference. The guy who was in your law class and purposefully sat beside you— Higuruma noticed him long ago. Though if he noticed, that does mean he's been thinking of you.
"N-no, no one"
You maybe babbled some more things as you got lost in the pleasure, but you don't care. You feel one of his hands leave holding your pussy open and instead slip into it. Easily, his finger slides into you hole with all the natural lubrication you were producing.
"Mhm, tell me about it," he mutters when you moan over his finger curling just right. "Making you feel so good, huh? Should've let me take care of you hours ago. Poor baby probably hasn't even been paying attention— just fantasizing about this pussy being stuffed"
His lewd words almost surprise you— the put together professor, never one hair misplaced or his tie not properly tucked, was actually finger fucking you while licking up the mess you made?
"R-right there! There!" whining out repetitively as you feel yourself approaching your climax. "Higuruma right there please"
You words sound like the prettiest melody Higuruma ever had the pleasure to listen to. He felt his cock aching and he was tempted to trail a hand down to squeeze it— wanting to relieve some tension. Though, he tried to just stay focused on you and not how he throbbed every time you whined his name.
"I hear you," he groans while redoubling his efforts by flicking his tongue against your clit and even tracing figure 8's. "Sound so pretty sweetheart. Let me hear you when you cum"
One of your hand latches onto the front of his hair while you yanked at the roots subconsciously and leaned forward; placing a hand on the arm rest of the couch as your thighs trembled.
You're coming undone over his face as whines, moans, and high pitched groans escape your bruised lips, from all the earlier kissing, and fill the other wise silent atmosphere. Higuruma helps you ride your orgasm by soft suckles to your clit, then eventually eases off once you let go of his hair.
¡Law Professor Higuruma! who softly guided you off his face to instead slide down his chest and into his lap. He didn't bother wiping the slick that covered his nose as he sat up, which forced you to sit more over the pronounced bulge in his slacks. Your clit catches the fabric just right as you felt his warm, heavy cock under you and it almost made you whine and start rutting into him. He just quietly appreciated how your weight felt settled over his dick as he rolled his hips up once, but paused when you gasped— overstimulated.
He did let his thumb dip to the side of his lips and push whatever slick he could find back onto his tongue.
"You taste so good," he mumbled while leaning to press a kiss on your lips. You could taste yourself on him as his hand cradled your face softly.
Unsurprisingly, you were quick to make a "returning the favor" joke as your hips followed their natural instinct to rock on his lap.
¡Law Professor Higuruma! who never in his life thought he'd be sneaking around with a student. Though, he couldn't deny the excitement that coursed through his body whenever he saw you show up to class every day and sit front row.
Frequent visits to his penthouse apartment, car, school office, and whatever somewhat 'classy,' quiet space we could find.
At first he beat himself up about it. Him sleeping with his much younger student like some weirdo professor that needs to grow the fuck up? It truly made him almost spiral for the first few days.
As your moans became imprinted in his memory and the way you'd tear up right as you came— only to slap a hand over your mouth— became all he could think about.
How soft and warm your walls felt the first time he was pushing into you as you laid in his bed. How his hand trailed to your clit to rub small circles as you adjusted to his size and girth. How it felt when he was able to lean down and wrap his arms around your upper back and cradle the back of your head, then begin just pistoling his hips into you while chasing his orgasm.
Soon this affair drifted from one week into several, then into months. Higuruma kept it hidden from others in his life, but he never wanted you to feel bad for the arrangement. So, he'd still take you on dates to expensive restaurants he knew no college student could afford; therefore, someone wouldn't see the two of you together. Or he'd drive you to the expensive outdoor mall on the other side of town that had designer brands and insist on you 'picking something pretty' out.
Overall, your sex life was more than satisfied and your grade in his class returned to an A+. Though that wasn't because he adjusted them due to you sleeping with him— that's a line he'd never cross. He had to maintain some dignity. Instead, it was through him helping you with concepts and always being free to answer questions about material in class.
He cared for his sweetheart, so even when one time you pulled off of sucking his dick to ask about the Erie doctrine, he'd just begin explaining it like he was lecturing. Totally not getting distracted by how you looked on his knees, so eager to lap up any precum trailing down his thick length.
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A/N: thinking of making this a series with different JJK characters as professors
can we please normalize not tagging a reader x (character) that is not happening in the fic?
im looking at you zuko writers that tag sokka x reader in your fics. my man is already unappreciated enough as it is, but going at his tag and almost finding more zuko content then his own gotta be a slap in the face
Pairing: Fratjo x Shy Girl!Reader x Frat/Plug!Eren
Synopsis: Gojo Satoru is your best friend. Eren Yeager is his bestie and your plug. You're the shy girl who is curious about what their dicks look like after overhearing rumors on campus about their escapades. One night, during a party game of "Truth or Dare", the hot frat duo decide to take you up on a special dare when you get too tipsy and decide to give you a front row seat of what they're both packing.
Warnings: 18+ (MDNI); No Curse/Titan/College AU; Anime Crossover; Shy to Slutty!Reader x Marijuana & Alcohol; Truth Or Dare; Three Way Kissing; Boy on Boy (teehee!); Shotgunning; Sexual Tension; Nipple & Tongue Piercings; Muscle Worship; Drooling; Licking; Couch Sex; First Time Deepthroat; Oral (Giving n Receiving); Spanking; Pussy Spanks; Spitting; Degradation & Praise; Choking; Fucking In A Headlock; Spitroast; Legs Up Missionary; Tongue Sucking; Reader Cums 3x; No Creampie; Cum on Tits n Ass; Aftercare
Word Count: 11.4k
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!
Writer's Note: Told y'all I was finna write this!! I couldn't after seeing this sexy ass masterpiece. I'm gonna write more anime crossover in the future most def 🩷 Aaaand I don’t rock with D*ja C*t like that (I used to but she’s mad weird now lol) but the song really fit the scenario for this fic. I hope y'all enjoy this one! MWAH!! 💋💋-Jazz
Credits: Gojo x Eren fanart made by mochikuyo on IG! All photos found on Pinterest!
Maybe you shouldn’t have had that second cup of spiked punch.
There’s no telling what the fuck Gojo put in that concoction, but you tasted the strong hint of vodka combined with the fruity splash of the punch on your tastebuds now.
You consider the persuasive effects of the alcohol as your reasoning behind why you’re here now, sitting on your best friend’s couch about to get flashed by him AND his friend and your personal plug.
Gojo Satoru, your best friend since freshmen year of uni, is the full package with his white hair soft to the touch, piercing blue eyes, dashing good looks, dimples, and a body worth melting over.
The glint of the lip ring dangling from his plump, pink bottom lip and a flash of metal on his tongue never fail to make you throb. Not to mention his confident gate around campus, goofy sense of humor, and cockiness that is more attractive than it is annoying.
You’ve had a crush on him since freshmen year, but often locked it up and threw away the key due to how special your relationship with him. All the times he’s defended you from his stupid frat brothers who talked about wanting to fuck you, his shy, awkward little friend with the big ass glasses and her nose stuck in a book…how could you throw all of that away for these stupid, horny feelings?
And then Eren Yeager showed up, practically serving himself up to you on a silver platter to distract you from Gojo. Eren is not the typical frat boy—he comes with long, flowing black hair, gages, all kinds of piercings (one on his eyebrow, a lip ring, a sinful tongue ring, and supposedly nipple piercings), and tattoos adorning his toned body.
You sit in the basement of Gojo’s frat house with them, the sound of a party going on above your head. You hear the creaking of footsteps and the throb of music drifting through the ceiling, reminding you that anyone could come down here and see these two about to commit to your stupid, drunken dare to them.
The corners of Gojo’s pink lips curl into a panty-dropping, crooked smile, making his dimples pop. “You lookin’ kinda scared now, mama,” he says, his blue eyes glittering with mirth and tequila. “You good? Need somethin’ more in that cup?”
You look down at the spiked punch in your cup, halfway done, and quickly place it on the coffee table nearby. The lava lamp sitting next to you illuminates your skin, turning it red, purple, and blue, fortunately hiding your flush. “N-No,” you stammer. The last thing you need is something else to make you feel woozier, bolder, and hornier. “M’not scared. Just—”
“Nervous,” Gojo interrupts with a nod. “I can tell. You never done nothin’ like this before, have you?” He crosses his beefy arms over his chest, making you envision yourself stuffing your face between his pecs or being wrapped up in his arms while you’re bouncing on his stiff, fat cock. You try to push the lewd thoughts away. Drunk or not, it’s not appropriate to be thinking about your friend like this!
‘That’s never stopped you before, slut,’ a sly voice in your head hisses at you, referring to all the nights you’ve rubbed your pussy in your dorm at the thought of Gojo…and the tatted, black-haired frat boy standing next to him.
Eren raises one of his pierced brows. “Really? From the sounds of that dare, coulda sworn you’ve done freaky shit like this before.” His teal eyes slide over to Gojo, curious. “So how do you know?” he wonders.
Gojo gives you the cocky smirk he’s known for, his dimples popping as he does so. “We been friends since freshmen year! I know this girl more than she knows herself…clearly.” You avert your eyes from him and Eren, staring down at your hands pressed firmly in your lap, your creamy, soft thighs exposed underneath your mini skirt. You paired it with a nice cardigan, but you still feel oh-so exposed.
“Don’t be an ass, Toru,” you grumble. “I was only kidding. You two didn’t have to go along with this if you didn’t want to.” The two frat boys laugh, the sound seductive and dripping with sex. “Nah, I’m straight,” Eren chuckles. “Just depends on whether you want this or not.” He pauses, his teal eyes grazing over you. “I can’t say your boldness wasn’t cute as hell though.”
His compliment makes your skin burn. Gojo nods, giving you a hooded look that isn’t just from the alcohol or puffing on a blunt with Eren earlier. “Mmm-hmm. That’s why we’re here: to give you what you’re wantin’, baby.”
“I-I don’t…” You pause, gobsmacked by these two actually being posted up in front of you, no loud noises or miscellaneous convos drifting in the smoky, weed-scented air to distract you.
Both of them hot. Both of them sexy. Both of them being the most popular frat boys on campus for their muscles, good looks, dashing smiles…and supposedly, their big, pretty dicks, stroke game, and wicked skills in the bedroom.
To be very clear, these are all from rumors and stories you’ve heard on campus—in the back of classrooms; on the quad while you’re reading your book during free periods; in the corner of frat parties that Gojo forces you to come out to. Gossip about Eren’s supposed dick piercing and Gojo’s wicked tongue game.
None of this is coming from you; you would never try to push the friendship between you, Gojo, and Eren….even though you have fantasized about doing so. How can you not when you’re always subjected to such obscene, lewd gossip and stories of these two putting girls in the mattress?
Perhaps the stories plus the alcohol and wanting to prove that you aren’t just the “shy girl on campus” led you here now. Pushed you to fix your mouth to say that stupid ass dare moments before when the intoxicating false confidence from your cups of fruity punch spiked with vodka and tequila shots got to you.
You were sitting on the couch with the two frat boys at one of Gojo’s annual frat parties raged on around you. The music was loud, the sound of Tyler The Creator’s “Sugar On My Tongue” blasting from an Alexa Pro, making your head pound. You were more inclined to go back to your dorm to read and scroll through YouTube instead of watching drunk college kids dry hump and act a fool.
But secretly, you didn’t want to leave Gojo and Eren hanging. You wanted to spend more time with them, even if you were too shy to ask them to do so outside of studying. The frat boys were just in the middle of a game of “Truth Or Dare” while you watched and observed, giggling through your cup over how idiotic and silly they were.
“I dare you…to smoke the rest of this blunt down to the nub,” Gojo slurred with a sloppy grin, the tequila shots catching up with him. He sat next to you, manspreading, thighs spread open in his cut-off jeans. You tried not to ogle at his crotch or his big arms bulging out of his muscle tanks that read “Sit Here!” with two arrows pointing up and down. How sleazy.
Eren lazily looked over at his friend, his teal eyes slightly reddened by the blunt he and Gojo have been passing between each other for the past fifteen minutes…with you squeezed right in between them and trying hard not to explode over it. “Forreal?” He scoffed, taking the tiny, itty bitty piece of blunt from Gojo’s long fingers. “C’mon gimme somethin’ better. Shit, I’ve been smokin’ down to the nub since you were in pampers.”
You watched him take a drag of the longer blunt he and Gojo were passing, holding it between his long, painted fingers, each ring on his digits glistening and winking seductively at you in the DIY strobe lights. “Prove it then, you cocky bitch,” Gojo snickered, jutting his chin at the bit of blunt between his friend’s black-painted fingers, tattoos inking his knuckles.
Eren eyed the blue-eyed college boy with a bit of bite in them. Eren Yeager is NOT to be played with. “How you gonna disrespect and it’s my weed you’re smokin’?” he scoffed, referring to the fact that he has been Gojo and your personal plug for a year now since he transferred from Titan University your junior year.
Everybody goes to Eren for the best weed (and pills, if you’re into that). You always go to him for a little dime piece of weed and he teases you about it, always deciding to answer the door shirtless with a smirk on his face. “Enjoy, smart girl,” he purrs once you get your green and pay him.
“C’mon, Ren, you don’t wanna refuse my dare in front of the lady, do ya?” Gojo whispered, giving Eren a wink. The two of them gazed over at you sitting between them, practically squeezed between their toned bodies. Never mind that you three were at a party and surrounded by other people on all sides of the couch. You’d been here for over two hours, having been dragged out by Gojo since he was the one throwing it tonight.
The music was blaring, pounding against your skull, overstimulating you along with the same spiked punch you’d been nursing. AND the fact that you were sitting so close to such attractive men that seem to have such a strong pull on you the way other college boys don’t. Gojo’s citrusy body wash in your nostrils and Eren’s tatted arm roped around the back of the couch near your neck didn’t make your situation any better.
You made a show of rolling your eyes and nudging Gojo in his side, a little sigh leaving your lips. “Don’t, Satoru,” you sigh, sipping on your punch, becoming dizzier and heavier with each sip. Gojo poked his bottom lip out at you, cocking his head to the side. “You don’t wanna play, Y/N? C’mooon, it’s a party!”
You squirmed in your seat, hated that he was pressuring you…but then again, one round couldn’t hurt, right? “I don’t wanna do a dare.” Gojo clucked his tongue in disappointment, rolling his blue eyes. “Party pooper.”
“Then give me a dare,” Eren replied, smoke billowing from his pierced lips as he passed it to Gojo. “Even if it’s a lame one. Can’t be worse than the one your buddy just gave me.”
The snow-haired frat glared at him, wrapping his thick, pink lips around the blunt, hollowing his cheeks. “Suck my dick.” Eren grinned at him, his smile cocky and secretive. “You wish. Think you’d fall in love with this mouth too much.”
Gojo scoffed, wiggling his pierced tongue at him. “Like you wouldn’t be obsessed with a tongue like mine.” You pressed your thighs tight together, regretting wearing such a short denim skirt. This was fucking torture!
So what do you fucking do? You make it worse by sipping more of your red cup, letting the vodka settle on your tastebuds and drown out your shy, awkward personality. “All these silly dares you two are doing,” you drunkenly giggled. “I may as well dare you to kiss each other.”
Suddenly, you paused and clapped an immediate hand on your mouth. The two frat boys stared at you, completely silent, and it made you go hot with embarrassment. “I-I was just joking,” you stammered, your skin crawling with prickles of humiliation.
“No, you weren’t,” Eren deadpanned, not smiling but his eyes twinkled playfully at you. Gojo laughed, tossing his head back to expose his thick neck and Adam’s Apple. “Daaaamn, that’s kinda freaky, friend!” he cackled. "Whatddya say, Ren? You want a kiss?” He wiggled his brows at Eren and the black-haired frat rolled his eyes. “Fine, but don’t use no tongue.”
Suddenly, he was leaning in over your lap and so was Gojo, leaving you gobsmacked and shook to the core. “No promises~” Gojo sang before wrapping a hand around the back of Eren’s neck and planting one on him. He did it as if he had kissed Eren plenty of times before, their lips melding into one, one pulling while the other pushed.
You watched them in shock, awe, and arousal, zooming in through your glasses on how their lips danced with one another, the glistening metal of their tongue piercings flashing at you as their tongues slipped into each other’s mouths. You caught the sound of their low moans over the blaring, throbbing music, making something else attached to your body throb. Their hot kiss caught the eyes of some horny college girls who whistled, hollered, and recorded for all of the internet to see, but either cared.
Finally, the two pulled away, slightly dazed with hooded eyes that they trained on you.
Gojo smirked and passed you the blunt, figuring that you needed it. “How’s that for a dare, huh, mamas?” He purred. Though you didn’t smoke in public, you decided to take a slow hit anyway, letting the weed cloud your senses and make you even dizzier. You sat there, trying to recover, but you felt hot all over. “You good?” Eren asked, looking worried. “You look a little off. You wanna stop?”
You let him take the blunt from you, knowing that you didn’t need another hit. You felt light and heavy at the same time, everything sounding louder and looking shinier. Your chest felt hot, your nipples were hard, and you could feel that your panties were damp. “I…I don’t…” You paused, your throat dry. You didn’t know what to say or how to answer.
Luckily, you were interrupted by one of the boys’ fans; a blonde chick in a mini dress and high heels who ogled their kiss too. “Hi, Satoru,” she giggled, twirling her hair in her manicured fingers. “You still comin’ over to my dorm tonight? We’re gonna watch Sinners, right?”
You were so swept up in your own head and new, unwanted physical feelings that you barley missed what the girl said. Gojo leaned in and said something to her under his breath, right near her neck. She grinned and giggled, giving his shoulder a squeeze before she tottered off in her heels. You watched her walk off, your stomach flipping.
“What a joke,” Eren scoffed. He sat back and watched, thighs spread in his jeans. “You really finna fuck that girl?” Gojo pulled a face like he ate something sour, gulping down the rest of his red solo cup. “Nah…not again anyway. Girl lied there like a dead fish and then had the nerve to mouth about my dick game to her friends.”
Your ears pricked at this newfound information. “Mm…but stories get around, right? Nothin’ bad about me from what I’ve heard,” Eren chuckled, flashing you both a suggestive smirk.
This conversation did NOT need to happen. You shouldn’t have said anything more. But dammit, the weed, the drank, and the cologne wafting off of these two idiots’ bodies were turning you into someone else. “M-Me either,” you softly replied. Eren raised a brow at this, swishing his drink around in his cup. “Oh, yeah? So you’ve heard about me?”
He wasn’t smiling anymore, but his eyes were, so intense and playful. Teasing you so relentlessly. Gojo squeezed in a little tighter into your side, his sweat practically sinking into your skin. “What about me, babes? You never told me none of that!” Eren scoffed, waving him off with a flick of his fingers. “Like your dick is big enough to get people talkin’.”
Your eyes widened behind your glasses, the dirty words shaking you. You felt like a nun hearing dirty talk for the first time. “And is,” Gojo remarked, tossing his friend a smirk. “Like you haven’t been eyein’ my sweats before. You know what I’m packin’, Yeager.”
Finally, your eyes traveled lower—lower than they should’ve been—and landed right on their dicks. You didn’t miss their dick prints and you desperately wish you had, but it was impossible to not see the two obvious outlines of their bulges pressing against their pants. “I got another dare,” you blurted before you can stop yourself. They both looked at you, surprised. Eren asked, cocking his head. “Yeah? And what’s that?”
“Yeah, I’m curious,” Gojo agreed, grinning devilishly at you. "Let the vodka talk, shy girl.”
You felt the forbidden words bubbling up at your throat, pushed by the lust, curiosity, and influence of the weed and the alcohol, and soon, they were out: “I wanna see it.” Gojo blinked at you, confused. “See what?”
Heat engulfed you, making you feel like you were on fire. What the hell were you doing?! Why were you proposing to see your friend and your plug’s dicks?! ‘Live a little,’ the tiny voice in your head purred. ‘You know you want this.’ You didn’t look at either of them as you uttered your next request. “I mean…I dare you to let me see it. Them. Um…” You paused, blushing hot, wanting to bolt and hide under the couch.
The silence was thick, filled with the tension of your daring dare. “Wait,” Eren paused. “Are you darin’ us to show you our dicks, shy girl?” His smile was goddamn sinful, filled with all the wickedness of the devil himself. Gojo said nothing, simply watching you.
It didn’t take long for you to break under the pressure. “No!” you giggled, sounding fake and phony even to your own ears. “No way, I-I was just joking! I just wanted to see your faces, like I was serious! U-Uh, just forget what I said and—”
“Alright, I’m down,” Gojo replied. “Can’t refuse a challenge like that, especially one from my best girl.” You gaped at him, seeing his almost lackadaisical expression, like it was nothing that his friend dared him to show her his cock. “W-What?” you gasped. “No, no, you don’t under—“
“Fine then,” Eren added, gulping down the rest of his beer and slamming the cup down. “I’m down too. But don’t cry when she thinks my dick is better.” Gojo just laughed, thinking this was the funniest shit ever. “Bitch, please. C’mon, mamas, let’s take this to the basement.” He then took your hand, even as you gulped and gasped like a fish, unable to protest or stop them.
He then paused, grinning at you. “Unless you’re too scared to see if the stories are true,” he joked. “What’s the harm? I’ve seen your tits before!” And he has…not willingly. He had walked into your dorm one day while you were changing and accidentally saw you putting on your bra. “Red is your color, babes,” he joked before you squeaked and threw a pillow at him.
You shouldn’t have been doing this. You should’ve found a way to get out of this. But you had bound yourself to this stupid idea…and you weren’t too sure if you wanted to cut the ropes. “Fine,” you determinedly said, standing on wobbly legs. “Just don’t make it weird.”
Then they swept you away to Gojo’s empty basement where there was nothing but a lava lamp, a foos ball table, a Nintendo Switch, and a door that locked. Here you are now, faced with your own reckless. “So you still want us to fulfill this dare of yours, ma?” Eren asks, looking worried. “Don’t try to lie. Just say how you feel and we’ll be cool with it.”
Gojo nods, his hand slightly brushing your shoulder, making you burn. “Of course! But we’ve had our little sneaky linkups here an’ there, right, babes?” His blue eyes twinkle with the secret only you two are privy to. You flush at the mention of all those secret meetups where you’d practice kissing.
You don’t have much experience with guys. Most of them always regard you as the nerdy girl and barely pay attention to you. At the time when you were meeting up with Gojo for “lessons” and study dates, you hadn’t even kissed a guy since high school at prom.
Wanting to be a “good friend” to you, in the past, Gojo had offered to give you tips on how to kiss a guy…which led to other things. Only dry humping, sloppy make out sessions, and dick stroking through his pants that made you feel hot and wet once you left his frat house. He had touched you a few times, only through your panties, but it was the first time any guy had touched you in such a way.
You liked that feeling—the feeling of being irresistible and wanted. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to feel that again. “O-Okay,” you softly say. “You can take them out, I guess.” The two smirked down at you, appearing that they already knew that you’d say yes. Cocky bastards.
And then, with bated breath, you watch as they both go for their pants. Gojo shrugs off his shorts and Eren goes for his belt, the sound of the metal buckle making you bite your lip in anticipation. Their hands went to the waistbands of their boxers and slowly, teasingly, agonizingly, they both reached in and pulled themselves out at the same time.
“Oh, my God,” you silently gasp.
They are both just as big and thick as the rumors said they are. Each one has a vein trialing from base to tip, pulsation and in need of a long lick. Gojo’s cock is a lot longer and curves upward while Eren has a fat, heavy dick, all girth and thickness that makes you gulp, envisioning it stretching out your holes. And they both have dick piercings. You’ve never been wetter in your life than from seeing the two metal earrings glint against their cock heads.
Gojo smirks, finding your reaction priceless and adorable. “Well? Ya like whatcha see, shy girl?” he jokes. “Be honest or we won’t let you leave this couch.”
Despite your utter adoration, admiration, and lust over their beautiful cocks, you still rolled your eyes. “Fine; yes,” you scoff, unable to take your eyes off of them. “I like them. You won. Now can you put ‘em away?”
Gojo cackles, his cock bobbling as he did so. “Awfully feisty for a girl who dared to see her friends’ dicks,” Eren joke, smirking at you, but it isn’t the lighthearted teasing he always does. It is hotter. Molten hot. “Speakin’ of dare, I think it’s your turn again, Satoru.”
Gojo turns those sinful, blue eyes on you and smiles. Nothing could’ve prepared you for the next words out of his mouth: “I dare you to kiss me.” You gape at him, shaken. “W-What?”
The snow-haired hottie gives you a look like he wants to fuck you right here, right now on his couch. “You heard me; I didn’t stutter. And I’m not stupid either, girl: I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at me…how shy you get around your good friend…” He flashes you those pearly whites, making your heart stutter and your pussy tighten. You gulp, caught like a deer in headlights. How did he know? Has he always known? “You don’t have to explain. Just know that the feeling is mutual. It has been for years.”
There is a twinkle of adoration, genuine and sweet, in his eyes that makes you breathless. You gape at him, unsure of if you’re hallucinating or not. You watch as he slowly sits next to you on the couch, his cock still out and hardening before your very eyes. His hand cups your cheek, the pad of this thumb sending sparks trailing down your jaw. “Just kiss me and find out.”
So you do. His kiss has to be one of the best ones you’ve ever had in your life. It’s a kiss you can only find in Disney movies: magical—it sweeps you right off your feet. And yet it is so sensual and seductive, his lips seducing you with every single slow movement against yours.
Gojo takes his other hand to cup the other side of your face, holding you in place as his kiss deepens. At some point, you feel his tongue lick tantalizingly at your bottom lip, silently asking for access. You allow it and his tongue swirls with yours, creating sloppy, suckling sounds that make your pussy clench. He tastes of tequila and a hint of beer. Finally, he pulls away, but doesn’t stray too far from your lips. “Mmm, that’s it, pretty,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and breathless. “You taste so good. Your lips are so fuckin’ soft.”
You’re breathing heavy, your mind blank and dizzy from the kiss and the cold bite of his piercing against your hot, wet tongue. Gojo’s eyes suddenly slide over your shoulder and he smirks.
“Jealous, Ren?” You turn, finding the black-haired frat sitting next to you now, his jaw set tight. “No. You’re just bein’ a greedy motherfucker as usual.” Gojo snickers, still stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Yeah, totally jealous. Truth or dare?”
You’re so dizzy and disoriented from the kiss that you almost think he’s talking to you. Eren smirks, ever the one for shaking things up. “Truth.” The snow-haired frat grins, pressing another long, deep kiss against your lips as if you can't get enough of your cute little ass. “Do you want my cute ass friend to touch that dick?”
Eren’s answer is nothing more than a lustful growl: “Fuck yes.” You nearly get whiplash with how fast you turn to look at him. He is already moving in close, a hungered look in his eyes, his cock throbbing in his hand.Reality sinks in and you realize just what the fuck you’re doing. “W-Wait, I don’t…I-I’ve never—”
“Never done this before?” Eren finishes, raising a curious brow. So you never even seen a dick before?” You bite your lip, embarrassed by this fact. “N-No…at least not in real life.” You’re hinting that you’ve watched A TON of porn before, praying for the chance to taste, touch, see, and feel a nice, big, hard dick for yourself.
Now is your chance. Gojo and Eren are into this little confession, both groaning at the idea of their shy little college nerd being such a secret little slut. “Fuck, that’s cute,” Eren exhales. “Just take it slow, mama. You can’t mess this up.” Slowly, you reach a tentative hand out and wrap it around his cock, earning a low groan of praise in reply.
Slowly, you begin to stroke him, pumping him up and down, from base to tip. You watch as the handsome, black-haired frat leans his head back, exposing the tattoo on the side of his neck, his teal eyes fluttering shut. “That’s it,” he hisses.
He feels hot and satiny in your palm, your fingers brushing his public hairs slightly. They match the same fine, black hair at his happy trail, making you want to lick it. You swallow hard, biting your lip as you feel yourself ooze into your panties. “Oooh, he likes that,” Gojo purrs. “And so do I. Fuck, you’re so hot doin’ this for us, baby.”
One of his big hands move to gently fondle one of your tits over your dress, his tough light but firm. His warm palm and fingers touch every sensitive part of your breasts, even pinching your hardened nipples. A moan escapes your lips, unable to be kept in. You feel his lips at your neck, soft and supple, peppering your skin in hot, wet kisses. “You wanna touch me too? Then say it.”
Though you’re bursting with need, you still feel shy. Embarrassed to be so slutty…even though you’ve got your hand wrapped around your plug’s dick right now. “Satoru,” you whimper. “I can’t.” Gojo tuts, his fingers pinching your nipples a bit harder, making you whine from the bite of pain mixed with pleasure. “Yes, you can. You had all that mouth before, didn't you?”
His lips gently suckle on your ear, sending shivers all over you. Eren tuts adoringly at you.
“Poor baby is so shy. She just needs somethin’ to ease her nerves.”
He doesn’t make you pause from stroking him; only leaning over to pull at a drawer next to the table. He retrieves a baggie of pre-rolled blunts (done by him judging by the neatness) and a lighter. He gives you a wink before lighting the end of the blunt, making it burn red like a firefly in the night sky. “C’mere,” he murmurs. “Pucker those lips up. I’m gonna shotgun you.”
You do as he says and pucker your lips up into an O, watching as Eren wraps those lips around the blunt and takes a hit, deeply inhaling. Then he leans in and slowly blows the smoke out into your mouth. Though the smoke stings your eyes, the combination of that and Eren’s indirect kiss makes you dizzy with arousal and relaxation.
“Nice, right?” Gojo chuckles as you lean back into his chest, feeling heavy and light at the same time. “Now you gonna leave him hangin’ or what?” That’s when you spit into your palm and continue to stroke Eren, making your hold a little firmer as you twist your hand up and down, watching your spit shine on his dick. His handsome face screws up in pleasure at the feeling of your soft, tiny hand on him. “Ooooh, shit,” he hisses. “That feels s-so good!”
He stammers out the praise, overcome from the pleasure you’re giving him. You can hardly focus when Gojo slides his hand along your cheek, turning your head to the side. “Keep kissin’ me. Don’t forget about me, mama.” He swoops in you give a hot, sloppy kiss, your tongues swirling and moans traveling between each other, making your poor kitty throb even more.
Eren has had enough of your hand though—he wants more of you and forcefully yanks you away from Gojo with a hand on the back of your neck after placing the blunt on an ashtray. “You wouldn’t forget about your favorite plug, would you?” he asks in his airy, seductive voice. You’re surprised you can even speak with how horny you are, feeling like you’re about to burst. “N-No,” you softly moan, his touch making you shudder.
He is already moving in close, a hungered look in his eyes. “‘Course not,” he exhales before his lips cover yours. While his kiss is still just as intoxicating and swoon-worthy as Gojo’s was, his is also more rougher; wetter. He teases and plays with you, nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth and swirling his tongue around with yours, even sucking on it slightly. It feels oh-so good. You find yourself pumping him more eagerly, making him moan into your mouth.
“Greedy ass bitch,” Gojo growls. “Stop stealin’ my girl away from me. I want her lips too.” Then it’s right back to Gojo’s lips, soft and succulent, making you wrap a hand around him too. Soon, you’re stroking both of their big cocks, earning low groans and swears out of their soft lips as they indulge in your touch.
You fall deeper and deeper into your lust, succumbing to your sluttiness in one single swoop. Soon, before you realize it, you’re sucking on Gojo’s tongue, hollowing your cheeks as if you’re sucking his dick. “Mmmph!” Gojo moans in surprise. He pulls away, smirking. “You got an oral fixation too?”
You burn with shame at your brazen, slutty ways. This is so unlike you. This isn’t the you that you are with Gojo or Eren. “Sorry,” you whisper. But he shushes you, his eyes ablaze with lust. “Don’t apologize. Just take responsibility.” You blink at him, confused, slowing down your dual handjob. “What?” you softly ask.
You suddenly feel him pulse and you see that he is about 100% rock now. Stiff and throbbing.
“O-Oh, fuck. Y-You’re—”
“Hard as a fuckin’ rock for you,” he purrs, biting his lip. “And I dare you to put your mouth on it.” Eren hums in agreement, throbbing in your palm, lifting his hips to slowly fucking your hand. “Mine too. Can’t leave me out of this. That would be rude.”
The smirks the two friends wear are sinful. Damn near villainous. “Think you can handle two dicks at the same time, baby?” Gojo asks, moaning slightly at your touch. “I know it’s your first time and all, but those lips are speakin’ to me.”
Suddenly, in a blink, they are standing up in front of you, forcing you to stare at each of their cocks in your face. Standing at attention. Pulsing. Throbbing. All for you. To your surprise, you find yourself inching closer to the edge of the couch and wrapping your hands around their dicks at the base again with your hands slick with saliva. “Sssssshit,” Eren hisses, the word leaving his mouth in a sharp exhale. “Your hand is so fuckin’ soft, ma, fuck.”
You begin to pump them both at a rhythmic pace, the sweet, wet, lewd sounds of your wet hands stroking their dicks filling the air. “Fuck,” Gojo groans, lifting his shirt up to expose his abs to you. “I taught you well, babes.”
“Taught?” Eren parrots, raising his pierced brow at him. Gojo grins mischievously at you, slowly rocking his hips to fuck your fist. “Poor honey didn’t know much about shit like this till I let her feel me up. This is the first time she’s seen it though.”
“Stop, Toru,” you whimper, biting your lush bottom lip. “It’s embarrassing.” Even as you gush at the memory of you palming his dick in his sweats and boxers during your “study sessions”. Gojo coos at you, using his thumb to wipe at your bottom lip—you’ve begun to drool, you realize. “Aww, baby, don’t be!” he coos. “Eren doesn’t care. He thinks it’s hot.”
Sure enough, Eren is giving you a look like he wants to split you open and drill your shit till you squirt all over him. “So you never sucked one before?” You don’t answer at first, too embarrassed.
“We didn’t get that far,” Gojo replies for you. “But I-I’ve practiced,” you admit, fueled with the need to please them. The frat brothers look between each other curiously. “On what?” Gojo snickers. “Like bananas?” Yes…and cucumbers. But you won’t say all of that.
“I-I have a…toy,” you defeatedly confess, heat traveling to your face. You feel the two big cocks in your palms pulsate, throbbing in your fingers. Gojo groans in arousal at the idea of you sucking on a toy, wrapping your lush lips around it and sliding it down your throat. “God, that’s hot! Hope it’s just as big as me.”
“And me,” Eren chimes in. “But you can go slow as you want. There’s no rush.” His hand finds your hair, his black, glistening fingernails entangled as he strokes your scalp. Gojo nods, taking his cock and gently tapping it against your bottom lip. Plap-plap-plap. “Yeah, mamas, you’re so good already. It’s just that mouth of yours is drivin’ me crazy…”
You feel like the sexiest bitch alive with the way they stare at you, desperate and lustful. “B-But what if someone comes down here?” you whisper, fear still nibbling at your arousal.
But Gojo just laughs, completely aloof to your paranoia. “Eren will handle that. This motherfucker is scary as hell when he wants to be.” Oh, you know. The first time Gojo introduced you to him trying to get you weed to “ease your nerves” before exam week, you were terrified of Eren. Of his gages, tattoos, and resting bitch face as he met you at the door completely shirtless and looking irritated that he was interrupted.
But after some time of getting to know him, your crush for him bloomed the same way it did for Gojo. And now here you are, staring at his throbbing, pierced dick and then into his teal eyes, so deep and serene like an ocean, when he requests it. “Eyes up here, mama,” he murmurs. “I dare you to suck my cock.” His dirty request sends a delicious shiver through your spine.
“Yours?” Gojo scoffs. But your mouth is already wrapping around Eren’s dick, the eager, needy girl in you finally released. “Whoops,” he breathlessly chuckles. “Guess the—oh, shit—dick piercin’ did it for her. Fuck, that’s it….”
You clamp your lips around him, causing a long sigh to leave his lips and his head to roll back, exposing his neck that you ache to kiss and lick on. You continue to bob your head along his long dick, soon becoming used to his girth. Eren groans, his face screwed in ecstasy, his hand gripping your hair a little tight now. “That’s a good girl,” he moans, his fingers tangled in your hair. “Take me a lil’ deeper now. Just like…oh, fuck, like that!”
His moans are loud and brazen as his cock slides deeper down your throat, filling it up. The sounds that leave your throat are sloppy and lewd, making your pussy throb and cream in your panties. After throating him a bit, you slide your mouth off of Eren for a chance to breathe. Your hot, wet tongue swirls along the head, lapping up the pre-cum that dribbles out for you, even playing with his dick piercing with the tip of your tongue.
Gojo stares down at you as you blow his friend, his blue eyes dark and face flushed with pleasure. “Fuck,” he whimpers, his cock nearly exploding in your hand, filled with unshed spunk. “Can you suck me off like that too, pretty?”
Eren glares at him, cheeks flushed and eyes slits. “Uh-uh. You didn’t dare her.” The white-haired frat rolls his eyes, fed up with this game. “Then I dare her to suck me off,” he growls. “C’mere, gorgeous. Bring that mouth over here.” He crooks a finger at you and you are helpless to resist.
Gojo grabs his dick and holds it in front of you, his eyes dark with lust and need. "Stick your tongue out,” he breathlessly orders. You do so and he begins to tap his head against your tongue before sliding himself in your mouth. Your mouth and jaw stretch to accommodate his size, but he’s so damn BIG. You wonder briefly how he’ll even fit inside of you.
Perhaps he’ll make himself fit the way he does your throat as he slides deeper and deeper, each inch opening up your throat more. “Deeper, mama,” he grunts. “Take me deeper!" He gives you no choice but to do so, even though your nostrils burn from inhaling and exhaling too hard to avoid choking on his dick. You can’t help but gag on it as he begins to fuck your throat, using it to stroke himself.
He isn’t a quiet guy either—he whimpers and moans at how you feel, his bottom lip trembling and blue eyes turning into hooded slits as he watches your mouth stretch around him. Soon, he lets you breathe and you begin to lick him up like a lollipop, his own slutty moans like a drug. “S’good, Toru?” you slur, drunk off of his taste. His scent. His sounds.
You stare up at him through your glasses, albeit through foggy lens. “God, yes!” he groans. “You’re so good for me, baby! You look so pretty with my dick in your mouth!” He pauses, wrapping a big hand around his dick and pumping it in your face. “Stick your tongue out f’me, babe.”
You do it, letting him slap his big cock on your wet tongue. Plap-plap-plap. “That feel good?” he asks, a teasing smile on his face. Your close your eyes, nodding, enjoying being used in such a way.
“I’m standin’ here too,” Eren says, his voice buttery smooth and thick with lust. “You can take us both, can’t you, mama?” His cock pulses in your hand, desperate to be back in your mouth. Gojo chuckles sexily, the sound traveling straight to your cunt. “I’m sure she can. A girl this smart can figure it out.”
And you do. You find a rhythm between them; a pattern. After ten seconds of gagging, slobbering, and sucking on one dick, you switch to the other, doing the same. You eagerly blow both of the college frats, spit dripping down their shafts and over their balls, relishing their taste and moans drifting through the thick, sex-and-marijuana scented air.
Then you feel Gojo’s long digits caressing you through your panties under your skirt, your thighs split open to invite him in. “You like that?” Gojo teases, noticing how your thighs clamp around his hand to keep him there. “Dare me to go underneath?” His eyes shine with mirth, toying with you. Eren manages to spare your mouth long enough from fucking it to let you speak.
“S-Sure,” you softly stammer. “You can go under…if you want to.”
Really, you want to scream at him to pretty please touch your pussy. But that’s too forward, you think. “We both want to, baby,” he purrs. “But I was here first. You just worry ‘bout suckin’ off our friend while I take care of you here…”
They coax you into all fours so Gojo can get behind you, his fingers stroking your pussy and clit. The little pulses and semi-circles have you seeing stars and your eyes flutter closed to see more.
“Shit, you’re wet!” Gojo gasps, ogling at the way your pussy glistens. You whimper around
Eren’s dick in your mouth, sucking as Gojo strokes you under your skin, your panties abandoned.
“Goddamn,” Eren hisses, staring at Gojo’s fingers shining with your wetness. “That ain’t take long.” He says it so teasingly that you flush with embarrassment. “S’embarrassing,” you croak through a mouthful of spit and dick. Eren shushes you, stroking your scalp. “Don’t be embarrassed. That shit is so fuckin’ hot. We love needy girls.”
He then proceeds to fuck your mouth while Gojo continues to stroke your pussy, pausing to lick his forefinger and slide it up inside of you. “Ah!” you gasp, pleasure exploding through your body. Gojo grins, jerking his cock while he slowly fingers you. “Feels good?” he asks. Good isn’t even a word you’d use to describe how it feels to be finger-fucked by him. “Y-Yeah!” you gasp out. “T-Toru, your fingers…oh, fuck yes!”
“She’s even cuter when she cusses,” Eren growls, pumping his cock at the sight of you. You find yourself latching your mouth onto him again, taking him in your mouth. You drool and slobber all over him, turning into nothing more than a cockslut as you gag on him. “S-Shit, mama!” he groans, tilting his head back. “This is your first time, right? How are you this fuckin’ good, hm?”
Gojo grins from behind you, cocky fucker he is. “Guess she just needed a little persuasion.” He peers down at you and your perfect, supple ass peeking out of your skirt as his finger plunges in and out of your soft, velvety, puffy pussy. “Ain’t that right, beauty?”
SPANK!
His hand comes down hard on your asscheek, making it deliciously sting. “Oh!” you gasp around Eren’s cock. Gojo cackles, enjoying that recoil and your cute little reaction. “You want another?” he teases. “Say it to me. Tell me what you want.” When he tosses in the finger fuck plus clit rubbing combo, how can you say no? “Please, Toru,” you whimper. “Spank me again.”
SPANK!
Gojo sends another harsh smack against your asscheeks, alternating between each one. “God, this fuckin’ ass!” he groans, pausing to jiggle and fondle one of your asscheeks to his heart’s content. “Been wantin’ to get my hands back on it for months, but you keep playin’ with me.”
SPANK!
“You ain’t hittin’ hard enough,” Eren mutters. “Lemme show you how you do it.” Though you are whimpering and trembling at the intense stinging, Eren doesn’t think it’s enough and brings his hand up with every intention of smacking that ass till there is a handprint. "Brace yourself, mama.”
SPANK!
This one hurts a lot more, making you yelp in pain. “Ah!” you gasp, tears springing into your eyes. Though it hurts, Gojo knows it also turns you on, making your pussy tighter and wetter. “Oooh, she liked that,” he chuckles. “That pussy just gushed all over my fingers!” He begins to toy with your soddened pussy lips, fat and glistening, gently stroking each one.
Eren grows tired of your mouth all of the sudden and leaves his post to get next to his friend perched behind your ass. “Put your mouth on her then, and scoot over. I wanna taste her too.”
Your heart pounds at the mention of getting your pussy eaten by your crushes, but Gojo doesn’t make a move at first. Instead, he pauses, thoughtfully stroking your ass. “Can we taste your pussy, baby?” he asks in his hushed, seductive voice. “Dare us to do that?”
You’ve never wanted anything more (other than them). So you turn to look at them with those needy, sexy puppy dog eyes behind your spectacles. “Yes,” you whimper. “Taste me. Please.”
Unbeknownst to you, you’re making the two frat boys fall deeper for you.
Soon, you have two tongues caressing your pussy at the same time, your thighs spread wide on the couch. You moan, whimper, and whine on the couch as the two share your pussy, the cool metal of their tongue piercings sliding across your molten, wet cunt and clit, their moans hot and breathy.
Gojo’s tongue sliding inside of your pussy nearly makes you cum right there as he begins to work your little, wet hole. “F-Fuck!” you whine, only growing louder as Eren licks and kisses your ass, nibbling on it a bit.
He pulls away a bit to speak, his lips glistening from your wetness. “You’re so tight, y’know. All we’re doin’ is just tonguefuckin’ you and you’re clenchin’ around us. Wonder how’d you feel with my dick in you.” You wonder it too, your stomach flipping at the prospect of finding out.
“I bet you’ve been feenin’ for this, haven’t you?” Gojo chuckles deviously into your pussy. “I bet the thought of havin’ the both of us has made you wet, right?” You practically scream as Gojo begins to fuck you with his finger while Eren sucks on your clit, slowly but effectively bringing you closer to the brink of madness as he strokes your G-spot. Eren is a certified munch, sloppily sucking on your clit as he strokes your ass, his fingers dangerously close to your asshole.
SWAT!
“Ah, fuck!” you gasp, jumping when you feel a sharp palm on your pussy. “Eren, don’t!” The black-haired frat smirks against your ass, his mouth being replaced by Gojo’s eager mouth. “Don’t what? Spank that pussy? You gettin’ close?”
SWAT!
He does it again, the sharp smack sending you into a frenzy. Your eyes roll back and your body shakes, your arch nearly failing you. “Y-Yeah!” you stammer. “I-I’m so close! Wait, I m-might squirt!” You can feel it building up inside of you, threatening to pop like a soda can.
“Then do it, da fuck?” Eren growls, aggressive yet eager, pausing to frantically rub at your clit with his thumb. Gojo is a lot more needy, begging you to cum for him as his finger strokes you from the inside. “Squirt for the both of us, baby,” he pleads. “Please. Get it all in my mouth!”
You have no choice but to do so, moaning out loud as you spray all in Gojo and Eren’s mouths. The two young men moan in satisfaction as they taste you, moaning at your sweet cum tantalizing their tastebuds like it’s sugar. Your body bucks and writhes, hips grinding and winding in the air until you’re all drained out from the source.
Eren sits back with a sigh, palming your ass. “What a little closet perv. Loves gettin’ spanked and suckin’ dick.” You don’t even have the energy to shy away from his lustful stare or his degrading words. You are a little closet perv. A cum slut. A needy girl who wants to be fucked and used by her crushes.
“I wanna see these so bad,” Gojo groans, reaching underneath you to toy with your drooping tits out of your top. “You’ve seen our cocks, babe. You wanna see the rest of us?” You nod, unable to speak while he is busy pinching your nipples. “Then dare us,” he orders, his tone dripping with lust.
Slowly, you sit back on your knees and face the two big-dicked college studs, feening like an addict for more. Your shyness is gone, replaced with nothing but a bold, sexy confidence. “I dare you to take off your clothes,” you hear yourself exhale. The two smirk at you, on the same time of time you are. “Sure thing, cutie,” Gojo chortles.
Then you’re staring at the both of them in all their glory. All big muscles and tan skin adorned in tattoos; big pectorals; washboard abs; biceps and thighs that could break necks and crush watermelons. Your eyes roam over each vein trailing up their calves and arms, catching the glint of Gojo’s nipple piercings and Eren’s lipstick tattoo inked on the narrow line of his left hipbone. “Oh, my God,” you whisper.
Gojo chuckles, even flexing for you, making his biceps bulge even more. “Thanks, baby. Right back atcha…but I think you’d look better without clothes.” He tugs your top down more, letting the straps hang off of your shoulders. “Get naked,” Eren bluntly demands. “I need that shit offa you now.”
His tone is assertive and rough, making your pussy gush; you have to clench your thighs together to avoid staining the couch. “So bossy, ain’t he?” Gojo cackles as Eren reaches for you.
Your tiny top comes off, tossed away on the floor, and then your skirt comes next as Eren yanks it down your soft, coconut-scented legs. They leave your kitten heels on, especially since Gojo likes the way they look with your painted, bubblegum-pink toenails. “Goddamn,” Eren hisses while Gojo whistles at the sight of your naked body. Both reactions make you flush, a newfound confidence flowing through your core.
Gojo sits down next to you and takes your hand, sliding it down his chest like he’s working for a tip at the strip club. “C’mon, gorgeous, touch me,” he beckons. “Put those pretty fuckin’ hands on me. I know ya want to~”
You can’t help it—you are attracted to their bodies like a moth to two burning hot flames. You stroke their bodies, indulging in all they have to offer. Their laughter is teasing and sultry as they watch you squeeze their arms and glide your fingertips over their abs, even kissing their muscles for them. “Someone’s eager,” Gojo teasingly whispers, softly groaning as you kiss his neck while your fingers drag over his abs and happy trail.
“I can’t help it,” you softly whine. “You two are so fuckin’ hot.” You feel yourself growing wetter than a puddle from just their big, muscular bodies alone…but also because Eren has decided to rub your pussy while you indulge in your muscle fantasy.
Gojo coos, eyes rolling back at how fucking cute you are. “So polite. So fuckin’ sweet. She needs a reward, doesn’t she, Ren?” The long-haired frat nods from behind you, sharing in Eren’s smirk. “Mmm-hmm,” he agrees.
Gojo then turns those ocean blue eyes on you, his hands gliding over your chest to squeeze and fondle your tits. “So what do you dare us to do next, baby? You can pick either me or him.”
You know what that means…or you’re hoping that it means what you think it does. You are trembling with need, hot with arousal. You can’t leave her until you’re fucked out of your mind by these two! And you don’t care how they’ll make themselves fit. You believe you’re wet enough to take either one of them on this couch, the party and guests be damned.
So you stare up into Gojo’s alluring eyes through your lashes, slutty as can be. “Toru?” you softly coo. He smiles at you, his hand cupping your cheek. “Yes, baby?” he replies as his thumb runs over your bottom lip. You pause, kissing it, fire exploding in your belly. “I dare you to fuck me,” you utter.
Gojo doesn’t need any more confirmation, already reaching for a condom in the drawer next to him. “You ever do this before?” Eren curiously asks. “Fuck somebody?” You turn to him, flushing hot. “Yeah, b-but…you both are my biggest ones.”
The two struggle not to grin at your admission as Gojo coaxes you to get in doggy. His favorite position. Gently, he strokes your back and kisses your neck, although you can feel his dick pulsing and throbbing with need against your entrance. Plap-plap-plap goes his wet cock as he slaps it lightly against your clit, making you moan. “I’ll do it real slow, okay, baby?” he whispers. You nod, biting your lip as you feel his head press in while Eren kneels in front of you, needing your mouth again.
You feel Gojo slide himself inside just as Eren begins to kiss you, sucking on your tongue as he does so. His teal eyes glimmer down at you as he strokes his cock in your face. “Open wide, mama,” he coos, and you do so, looking up at him as you obediently widen your jaw to accommodate his size.
Speaking of accommodating size, your pussy is busy doing the same thing to Gojo’s cock that has just begun to slide the rest of his inches inside of you, slow and careful. You tense slightly as his thick, long cock stretches out your pussy. You can’t remember when you had a dick this well-endowed. Gojo’s hands stroke your sides, easing your nerves. “Oh!” you gasp, your glasses foggy from the sex thick air. “Toru, y-you’re so…you’re stretching me!”
Gojo shushes you, his hands gripping your hips to pull you back against him. “S’okay, baby. You’re doin’ so well for me.” He continues to slowly pump himself in and out of you, groaning at the way his cock looks sinking between your fat, dripping wet pussy lips. Soon, he bottoms out and as soon as he does, you’re both moaning at the feeling of his cock stroking your insides. “Just as I thought,” he grunts. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”
He can no longer do the slow and gentle shit, so he grabs your hips and proceeds to pound into you, giving you the big cock you crave. You can’t even describe how he feels. His dick stretches out your cunt and strokes every single pleasurable part of your insides that have your legs shaking and body trembling. The more he thrusts, the more he rubs up against your G-spot, almost painfully so. It’s just too much! “That’s a good girl,” Gojo moans. “So f-fuckin’ good, fuck me!”
But Gojo holds you firmly by your hips, completely bottomed out inside of you and rearranging your guts with every single thrust. He yanks you flush against him, giving your ass a smack. “Uh-uh, baby; don’t run for me. You begged me for this shit and now you’re gonna take it.” He chuckles at your whines of protest and trembling body, making you feel even more like a pathetic slut.
You can only moan and whimper as you drool around Eren’s big dick down your throat sobbing with your spit and his pre-cum. He relishes the way you swallow him whole, no doubt your tight throat matching the tight pussy that Gojo is groaning and whining about as he fucks it. “Such a good little slut for us,” Eren mutters. “Takin’ all that big dick so well.”
Gojo decides to challenge that, his thrusts growing sharper and more rhythmic, causing a clap-clap-clap sound of skin against skin to fill the air, mingling with your joined moans and the throbbing bass of the music upstairs. You want to escape from the constant stimulation, but the way he continues to beat your pussy into submission and drag you closer to your second orgasm are too delicious.
And he’s so, so deep! The more he thrusts, the deeper he gets until he is very nearly kissing your cervix. You can feel all of him; he’s damn near in your stomach. Eren slips his cock out of your mouth to hear your pretty voice aloud, furiously fisting his cock as you moan, whine, and sob in pleasure from Gojo’s heavy balls slapping rhythmically against your clit.
“O-Oh, f-fu-u-uck!” you moan aloud as your friend pounds your pussy like his life depends on it. “Yes, Toru, yes!” you slur. “S’sooo good! Your dick f-feels so…oh, shit, right there!”
“Right here?” Gojo grunts, sweat dripping down his handsome, flushed face. He puts his foot up on the couch and angles his hips juuuust right to nail your G-spot dead on, making your eyes roll back and your glasses fall down your nose, crooked. “Right there, slutty girl? Is that good for my baby?”
You can’t give him a verbal answer. All you can do is moan, sob, cry, and whimper on his dick as he uses it to stretch, massage, and pound your wet pussy into the couch while Eren slowly pumps his dick in your face. You stare up at him, drool dribbling from your plump bottom lip.
“What, mama?” he coos. “Ya want this?” He taps his dick head against your bottom lip, coating it in your spit.
“Ren,” you whimper. “Please lemme…” You trail off as you wrap your mouth around his dick with no hands, swallowing him whole.
Gojo begins to piston his hips inside of you at the same time as Eren. They each match the same pace and pattern, rutting in and out of your holes until your eyes are wet with tears and your body is aching for release. They fill you to the brim with their cocks, using your body for their own pleasure while also giving you yours. “Ooooh, shit, she’s suckin’ harder!” Eren groans, his teal eyes lust blown. “Jesus, Gojo, what are you doin’ back there?”
“It’s these arms,” Gojo cackles, using nothing but his hips to fuck you as he lifts his arms to flex for his friend. “She loves bein’ wrapped up in ‘em…bet she’ll like this too!”
And suddenly, you feel his arm lock around your neck and squeeze your head slightly, putting you in a light headlock as he continues to fuck you in doggy style. Your mouth falls open on slutty moans as you bounce back onto his cock, your ass and tits bouncing in time with his rough pounding. “Is that good, baby?” he loudly moans. “Huh? Ya like gettin’ fucked in a headlock, don’t you? You love bein’ my fuckin’ party slut!”
You do. You love it so much. You love Gojo fucking your pussy in a headlock. You love Eren using your throat to fuck himself like a fleshlight. You love it all. And soon, you can’t take much more anymore. “I-I’m gonna cum!” you slur around Eren’s cock, spit bubbles forming at the corners of your mouth as you speak.
“Do it, baby,” Gojo groans, panting and whimpering in your ear as your pussy squeezes him tighter. “F-F-Fuck, I’mma cum too! You’re gonna make me explode, baby, fuck yes!”
He goes harder, faster, drilling your shit like it’s his. “So you dare me to cum, mama?” he grunts, one hand replacing his arm to squeeze your throat. “Is that it? You want your favorite frat boy to spray all over this perfect ass and make that pussy cum for him?”
“Y-e-e-es!” you hiccup between thrusts, falling deeper and deeper into euphoria as your pussy quivers with need. “Please, Toru, I need to…I’m gonna…I’m cumming!” Your body shakes and quakes as you cream all around Gojo’s fat dick, coating in your juices. Gojo chases his nut inside of you, gripping you tight and pounding your cut with abandon, his moans growing louder and porn-ier.
Finally, he pulls out and begins fucking his fist, panting at the sight of your pussy wet from your cum and looking so open from his dick fucking it.Then you feel warm droplets of his spunk fly onto your ass, coating your cheeks in them. Gojo whines out your name as he cums, spraying you in his spunk, making you smell like him as soon as the creamy, white substance hits your skin.
But even during your “recovery session” where you pant and sweat, trying to catch your breath, Eren doesn’t allow it. “Not just yet, mama,” he chuckles. “You got me to deal with too.”
Your eyes widen, your fucked-out mind almost forgetting about the second big dick you need to take tonight. He lays you back and forces your legs straight up in the air. “Don’t need these no more!” Gojo laughs, taking your glasses and placing them aside. “Can’t let ‘em break.”
He then tosses Eren a condom and you watch the teal-eyed plug tear it open with his teeth before rolling it down his hard length. He gives you a wicked smirk before rubbing his dick over your sensitive pussy and sliding in slow, your legs wrapped in his tatted arms. “Shit!” you moan at the same time as Eren who wordlessly sighs as he sinks into your pussy.
Your body bounces from the force of Eren’s thrusts, your tits jiggling and ass slapping against his thighs in time with his thrusts. He is just as good of a fuck as Gojo is, his stroke game making your eyes roll back and your entire body tremble. “S-Shit, Ren,” you keen. “You’re so good!”
“Yeah?” Eren teases, black strands of his hair hanging in your face as he fucks you stupid. “Just what you needed, right?” He begins to press kisses to your ankle and toes, even sucking on the painted digits as he fills you up with his big dick over and over again, making you dizzy and delirious from it.
You know that this kind of fucking won’t make you last long. Either of you. You can tell he is close to his orgasm with how forceful his thrusts become—Eren grips your thighs with a possessive roughness that may cause bruises, his grunts growing louder and more intense the more his heavy dick fills you, his dick piercing kissing your G-spot.
You’re not too far behind—you can feel your own orgasm quickly rising to the surface, your core beginning to distractedly tighten. Gojo notices your shift in body chemistry and loops a hand between your thighs to rub your wet, aching clit as Eren continues to fuck your brain out of your skull. You scream as you clench around Eren’s cock, sobbing at the pleasure.
“You’re close too, aren’t you, mama?” Eren asks, his handsome features flushed and slick with sweat. “I can feel that body shaking. I should speed up, shouldn’t I?” He does so, slamming his hips against you so hard that his balls begin to slap agains your ass, his cock hammering into you.
“C’mon now, baby,” Gojo coos, frantically rubbing your clit to take you to the end. “Just let go for us. Be our little slut tonight.”
You are a greedy girl because that second orgasm begins to rise within you with every thrust of Eren’s cock and pulse of Gojo’s fingers against your clit. That chord begins to tighten again, threatening to snap very soon. “Eren, please!” you whine into the air, your back damn near about to snap as it arches off of the couch. Your eyes screw tight and your brows knit together, no doubt giving a crazy look.
He dips down to press his lips to your ear, gripping your hair as he does. “You wanna take this next load like a good lil’ cum slut? You wanna make us happy, right?” You whine desperately, wanting nothing more than to just cum and have him cum too.
“Please,” you whimper. “Please cum for me! Let me cum for you, Ren!” Your soft, sweet voice is all it takes for Eren to lose the last bit of his self restraint.
"So fuckin' cute," both he and Gojo groan before they both lean down and give you a three way kiss. Sloppy, hot, and possessive, their moans traveling into your mouth, their pierced tongues tickling yours.
After a few more rough thrusts that have your body shaking and your soul nearly being stripped from your body, your plug finally reaches his breaking point. Eren pulls out and rips off the condom before cumming all over your titties, so much that you can feel it dripping down your stomach. “Take it!” he demands in a dangerous growl that makes your stomach flip. “Take all of me, baby!”
And you do. You don’t have a choice. At the same time, with Gojo’s rubbing, your orgasm hits ripples through you and hits you like a truck, slamming into you with enough force to have you sobbing. You open-mouth moan, drool dripping from your sides of your mouth, but you don’t care. You’re far too deep to even be aware of what’s going on besides pleasure.
“Oh, my God!” you moan to the heavens, head tilted back and eyes squeezed tight as your orgasm washes over you. “I’m cumming!” you babble. “I’m cumming!”
“Yes, baby, we know,” Gojo chuckles, gently stroking your face. He then cackles at your expression. “Look at those pretty eyes rollin’ back. Such a slutty face you’ve got there, babe.” He squeezes your face in his hand, squishing your cheeks together as your orgasm continues to rock you to your core.
Soon, you are exhausted and slump against the couch, panting, sweating, and sticky with cum. You feel Gojo and Eren’s loads dry to your skin, no doubt meaning that you’ll have to take a hot shower later…but maybe you won’t. You find that you like the smell of them on you.
You practically rub yourself against them as both frat boys sit next to you on the couch, naked and spent, satisfied smiles on their sexy faces. “Bet you’re glad that you played Truth Or Dare with us now, aren’t ya?” Gojo jokes, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.
“Mmm-hmm,” Eren hums as he continues to smoke the blunt sitting on the ashtray. He kisses you too, putting your glasses back on your hooded eyes and wrapping an arm around you. “I definitely am. Hit me up if you wanna do this again next time, mama…maybe without Gojo next time.”
“So hostile,” Gojo scoffs, rolling his crystal blue eyes at his friend. “We’ll let our cute little shy girl be the judge of that one.”
You’d say hell yes if exhaustion wasn’t kicking your ass right now now, but judging from the way they snuggle you close, you suppose that they already know that you’re gone for them.
And when they both lean in to give you a sweeter, less sloppy three way kiss, how can you possibly refuse them?
You never would have thought that you would see the day that the hottest twin brothers of all time Fratgojo and his twin brother nerdjo were arguing over you. But you couldn’t blame them, you were the most sexiest person in the world to them with your sexy curves, beautiful smile and such a nice personality.
They couldn’t resist your pretty self.
“No asshole, she’s mine!” Nerdjo exclaimed, narrowing his eyes at his brother.
“Fine. let’s play a game. If you can make her cum first then she’s all yours but if not—” fratjo wraps his arms around your waist tightly helding you close to him. You could feel his boner sticking you from behind as he slowly licks your neck which made your body shiver in arousal and he nibbles on your earlobe while making eye contact with his brother who was furious, teeth clinched. “Then, She’s mine instead.”
“Shut that shit up. you don’t intimidate me.” Nerdjo yanks you away from his brother grasp and holds you close to his muscular statue with one of his arm and he takes his hand to cup your jaw forcing you to look up his lustful stare, his pretty blue pierced your soul. He kisses your soft glossy Lucious lips passionately, smearing your pink lipgloss on him. He plays with your tongue interlocking it.
Nerdjo was such a good kisser. His kiss alone made your lace thong soaking wet and your pussy throbbing nonstop. Fratjo was fuming in jealousy. He couldn’t let his brother beat him.
“Besides— she’s loves my fat dick instead.. Isn’t that my pretty princess?” He coos.
It didn’t take long before they took turns kissing you and spitting into your mouth. “That’s right my pretty baby swallow our spit.” They both say in unison.
They both strip you completely and they admired your beautiful naked body in awe. They couldn’t wait to put their hands on you.
The twin brothers beautiful dicks were very huge and right about the same size and thickness.
Nerdjo was gentle yet passionately as he was fucking that tight soaking wet pussy of yours, Hitting every sensitive in your pussy. But Fratjo on other hand was rough he was like a feral beast pounding into your puckered tight pretty asshole.
“O-oh fuck!! Oh my godd!!” You moaned out loudly practically crying out as the sensation of being stuffed was too much. It felt sooo fucking amazing. Your long pink acrylic nails dig into Nerdjo muscular chest feeling so overwhelmed with pleasure.
Nerdjo glasses fogged up as he was groaning uncontrollably as your pussy squeezed around his thick dick and he wrapped his arms tightly around your back. “Say you love my dick more princess.. better than my dumb brother over there.” He huffs out.
You were about to speak but fratjo spoke out instead. “Na baby, say you love MY dick more. I can fuck you more better isn’t that right? My gorgeous doll” . SMACK. He slaps your pretty brown plump ass which made your cheek sting. You form proper sentences because of being fucked stupid by the twin brothers.
You could feel the pressure building up as your orgasm was about to come your eye were rolled back to your skull as you couldn’t stop your sexy moans from slipping away your plump lips.
Nerdjo and fratjo were close to their limit too. “Oh fuckkk I’m about to cum! Gonna fill this pretty asshole with my load. Take it all my slutty girl.” fratjo grunts out. “Yea baby.. take all of my cum too in that sweet pussy of yours angel.”
Then it happens you, nerdjo and fratjo all cum at the same time. The twins both filled your holes up as you cream all over Nerdjo dick. You were panting and breathing out heavily.
It was hard to tell which one of the hot brothers made you cum first. It was definitely a tie. “Since it was a draw this round.. let’s go another round what do you say my princess?” Fratjo and Nerdjo both say in unison.
You definitely wasn’t gonna be able to walk the next day.
I love your writing so much, please write Making out with sokka properly for the first time (she’s straddling him and every time she repositions herself she accidentally rubs on him without noticing) and he cums in his pants. This is in the beginning of their relationship and it’s their first time doing anything like that. He feels guilty because he doesn’t want to come off as gross but he just likes her so much and she doesn’t even mind she just laughs (not at him but in a comforting way that makes him feel less embarrassed).
A/n: he 100% would and I love him 😩, he's so fucking adorable.
It was supposed to just be a kiss.
That’s what you had told yourself when you climbed into his lap just to be closer, just to stop the awkward distance that always seemed to creep in whenever things got quiet between you.
Sokka had gone completely still the second you straddled him.
“…uh,” he started, blinking up at you. “Hi."
You smiled softly, your hands resting on his shoulders. “Hi."
The first kiss was hesitant, soft, almost unsure but it didn’t stay that way for long. The moment your lips pressed fully against his, something in Sokka melted, his hands finding your waist like he needed to make sure you were really there.
“Oh,” he breathed against your mouth.
You smiled into the kiss, tilting your head slightly, deepening it just a little and he followed immediately, a soft, surprised sound slipping from him as he kissed you back properly.
It was new.
Messy.
A little clumsy.
But it was something real.
Your fingers slid into his hair, your body shifting slightly as you adjusted your position in his lap, trying to get more comfortable.
You didn’t notice it but he did.His breath hitched sharply.
You kept kissing him, slow and soft, your movements absentminded as you leaned closer, pressing into him without thinking.
“Sokka....” you murmured quietly.
“Mm...yeah?..." he answered automatically, though his voice sounded… strained.
You shifted again, just a little and this time he really felt it.
His hands tightened on your hips instantly, his breath catching harder as his cock strained against his pants, your body rubbing against him in a way that made his head spin.
And you had no idea, no instead you just kissed him again, softer this time, your lips lingering, your hips shifting unconsciously as you got comfortable.
“Sokka?” you whispered against his mouth. “Are you okay?”
He let out a shaky breath.
“Yeah...yeah, I’m—” his voice broke slightly as you moved again, his grip tightening. “I’m good, just—”
You tilted your head, confused. “…just what?”
“You’re—” he swallowed hard, his face flushing. “You’re moving—”
“I am?” you blinked. You shifted again instinctively, your fingers clutching his tunic.
And that was all it took. Sokka let out a choked sound, his head falling back slightly, his grip tightening almost desperately on your hips as his body reacted before he could stop it.
He froze.
Completely.
Your lips parted slightly as you pulled back, confused. “…Sokka?”
He didn’t answer right away, his face was red, his breathing uneven. And then realization hit him all at once.
“Oh...Spirits....” he groaned softly, his hands loosening immediately like he didn’t know what to do with them. “I’m so sorry...I didn’t mean...I wasn’t.”
You blinked at him. “…what?”
He avoided your eyes, clearly mortified now. “I just...I like you, okay? A lot. And that just,,I didn’t—”
Then it clicked, your gaze dropped briefly. And instead of recoiling instead of reacting the way he clearly feared.
You laughed, soft, warm and gentle but not at him. It was never at him.
Sokka blinked, surprised, his head lifting slightly. “…you’re not mad?”
“No,” you said, smiling softly as your hands rested back on his shoulders. “I’m not mad.”
“You’re not...grossed out?”
You shook your head, your expression fond.
“I was literally sitting on your lap and rubbing against your cock without realizing,” you pointed out quietly. “What did you think was going to happen?”
He blinked then gave you a weak smile. “…that’s a fair point.”
You smiled a little wider, leaning down just enough to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“It’s cute,” you murmured.
He froze. “…cute?”
You nodded, your fingers brushing lightly through his hair. “I’m flattered, Sokka.”
His eyes went wide, he ran his tongue over his lips as he tried to think of something to say.“You’re—really not upset?”
“No,” you said again, softer this time. “I like you too.”
That hit him harder than anything else.
You leaned in again, pressing another soft kiss to his lips, slower this time, more certain.
He melted into it immediately. “…just,” he mumbled against your mouth, still a little flustered, “maybe—uh...warn me next time before you—”
You shifted again on purpose, grinning as you ran your fingers through his hair as his breath caught.
“…never mind,” he muttered weakly.
You laughed softly against his lips and now he didn’t feel embarrassed at all.
I love your writing so much, please write Making out with sokka properly for the first time (she’s straddling him and every time she repositions herself she accidentally rubs on him without noticing) and he cums in his pants. This is in the beginning of their relationship and it’s their first time doing anything like that. He feels guilty because he doesn’t want to come off as gross but he just likes her so much and she doesn’t even mind she just laughs (not at him but in a comforting way that makes him feel less embarrassed).
A/n: he 100% would and I love him 😩, he's so fucking adorable.
It was supposed to just be a kiss.
That’s what you had told yourself when you climbed into his lap just to be closer, just to stop the awkward distance that always seemed to creep in whenever things got quiet between you.
Sokka had gone completely still the second you straddled him.
“…uh,” he started, blinking up at you. “Hi."
You smiled softly, your hands resting on his shoulders. “Hi."
The first kiss was hesitant, soft, almost unsure but it didn’t stay that way for long. The moment your lips pressed fully against his, something in Sokka melted, his hands finding your waist like he needed to make sure you were really there.
“Oh,” he breathed against your mouth.
You smiled into the kiss, tilting your head slightly, deepening it just a little and he followed immediately, a soft, surprised sound slipping from him as he kissed you back properly.
It was new.
Messy.
A little clumsy.
But it was something real.
Your fingers slid into his hair, your body shifting slightly as you adjusted your position in his lap, trying to get more comfortable.
You didn’t notice it but he did.His breath hitched sharply.
You kept kissing him, slow and soft, your movements absentminded as you leaned closer, pressing into him without thinking.
“Sokka....” you murmured quietly.
“Mm...yeah?..." he answered automatically, though his voice sounded… strained.
You shifted again, just a little and this time he really felt it.
His hands tightened on your hips instantly, his breath catching harder as his cock strained against his pants, your body rubbing against him in a way that made his head spin.
And you had no idea, no instead you just kissed him again, softer this time, your lips lingering, your hips shifting unconsciously as you got comfortable.
“Sokka?” you whispered against his mouth. “Are you okay?”
He let out a shaky breath.
“Yeah...yeah, I’m—” his voice broke slightly as you moved again, his grip tightening. “I’m good, just—”
You tilted your head, confused. “…just what?”
“You’re—” he swallowed hard, his face flushing. “You’re moving—”
“I am?” you blinked. You shifted again instinctively, your fingers clutching his tunic.
And that was all it took. Sokka let out a choked sound, his head falling back slightly, his grip tightening almost desperately on your hips as his body reacted before he could stop it.
He froze.
Completely.
Your lips parted slightly as you pulled back, confused. “…Sokka?”
He didn’t answer right away, his face was red, his breathing uneven. And then realization hit him all at once.
“Oh...Spirits....” he groaned softly, his hands loosening immediately like he didn’t know what to do with them. “I’m so sorry...I didn’t mean...I wasn’t.”
You blinked at him. “…what?”
He avoided your eyes, clearly mortified now. “I just...I like you, okay? A lot. And that just,,I didn’t—”
Then it clicked, your gaze dropped briefly. And instead of recoiling instead of reacting the way he clearly feared.
You laughed, soft, warm and gentle but not at him. It was never at him.
Sokka blinked, surprised, his head lifting slightly. “…you’re not mad?”
“No,” you said, smiling softly as your hands rested back on his shoulders. “I’m not mad.”
“You’re not...grossed out?”
You shook your head, your expression fond.
“I was literally sitting on your lap and rubbing against your cock without realizing,” you pointed out quietly. “What did you think was going to happen?”
He blinked then gave you a weak smile. “…that’s a fair point.”
You smiled a little wider, leaning down just enough to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“It’s cute,” you murmured.
He froze. “…cute?”
You nodded, your fingers brushing lightly through his hair. “I’m flattered, Sokka.”
His eyes went wide, he ran his tongue over his lips as he tried to think of something to say.“You’re—really not upset?”
“No,” you said again, softer this time. “I like you too.”
That hit him harder than anything else.
You leaned in again, pressing another soft kiss to his lips, slower this time, more certain.
He melted into it immediately. “…just,” he mumbled against your mouth, still a little flustered, “maybe—uh...warn me next time before you—”
You shifted again on purpose, grinning as you ran your fingers through his hair as his breath caught.
“…never mind,” he muttered weakly.
You laughed softly against his lips and now he didn’t feel embarrassed at all.
Y’all do know we can tell when you’re not black writing black X readers right? It’s always butterfly locs, mustangs/hellcats, and broken aave with you hoes I swear.
